


The Golden Bird: Part II

by pierrot_dreams



Series: The Golden Bird [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dubious Consent, Eating Disorders, Epic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Politics, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, True Love, Victim Blaming, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:15:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 101,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22392382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pierrot_dreams/pseuds/pierrot_dreams
Summary: As the political situation in Lyonesse reaches the boiling point, Robert and Luca find themselves at the center of a tangled network of allegiances.
Series: The Golden Bird [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1495721
Comments: 272
Kudos: 362





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclosure: this chapter is posting a month earlier than scheduled for the sole reason that I am applying for Actual Literary Workshops with my Actual Literary Novel and, well, I just really need the kudos. I consume them for power. 
> 
> (Listen, writing is lonely and impostor syndrome creeps in the night like a black cat. Not to be confused with my actual black cat. Who, if we're being honest, probably agrees that I should spend another decade or two improving my prose before I attempt to foist it on the reading public.)
> 
> This chapter is rough, but I guarantee that a reunion will (spoilers?) follow shortly.
> 
> Also, there will be two more chapters of Interlude. I should also note that the idea to post a flashback piece was inspired by ColdColdHeart's "All Kinds of Broken," which takes place in her Oslov 'verse, which, if you're not reading yet, you absolutely should be. It's spectacular.

Luca was being kissed. The Ambassador cupped the back of his head; his other hand rested on Luca’s hip. He didn’t demand much in the way of response, allowing Luca to lay limp and open for his tongue. Luca was grateful. Kenever’s forces had been driven back to the border earlier that week, and the King had declared a carnival in celebration. Luca wasn’t sure how long it’d been since he’d slept. _Years,_ his mind whispered, but no, that wasn’t right, it couldn’t be more than a few days. He didn’t really sleep anymore, anyway, just rocked back and forth until he was weak enough for exhaustion to drag him under. 

The Ambassador pulled back, propping himself up on his elbow. Luca spread his legs, expecting that to be next, but the Ambassador simply smiled and stroked his face. He had a soft, plump hand with manicured nails. If the Ambassador wanted to hit him, it probably wouldn’t hurt. Luca might not feel it at all.

“You are by far the finest feast I’ve had in Lyonesse,” said the Ambassador. He ran his thumb over Luca’s swollen bottom lip. “What is your name?”

Luca’s breath caught. He knew what he was supposed to say— _My lord should call his slave whatever he desires_ —but it had been so long since he’d been addressed by his name. Any name. The King called him _mine_ and _present_ and _whore,_ but those weren’t names, they were just the things that Luca was. And the gladiators who fucked him didn’t call him anything. They weren’t allowed to speak.

“Luca,” he whispered. His voice was cracked, throat raw from he didn’t know how many men; he could barely hear himself. “Please, my lord Ambassador, if it pleases you, my name—my name is Luca.”

“Luca.” The Ambassador rolled the word around his tongue like he was tasting it. “Yes, it suits you. And you should call me Baldassare. There are no lords in Ermin, you know.”

No lords? How odd. But maybe Luca had known that. His mind was more and more like a stranger’s every day.

“Your Erminian is very good,” said Baldassare, tracing the chained barbell in Luca’s bruised nipple. “Slavery may be a dreadful archaism, but even the staunchest _égalitaire_ would admit that the boys in Lyonesse are the finest on the Continent. Sampling the splendors of Paradiso has always been the high point of my visits.” 

He tugged playfully on the chain. Luca swallowed a sob. 

“Ah, but truly, my dear, I have never seen your equal,” Baldassare went on. “Those belladonna eyes. A man could drown in them.”

There was a mirror on the ceiling. Luca watched himself in it as Baldassare kissed him. His eyes were so big and dark they looked like holes in his face. If you drowned in them, it wouldn’t be a quiet death. But there was always pain, wasn’t there, at the end? Luca had seen enough of the arena to know that all men died badly, even if their bodies were too broken to make a sound.

Baldassare pulled away with a pleased sigh. 

“But I’m letting myself get carried away. Of course we must dispense with business before we can enjoy ourselves.” He wagged a finger, mock-scolding. “You are altogether too lovely, my dear. In your company, a man forgets the priorities of state.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Luca whispered. 

“I’ll let you earn forgiveness in a moment,” said Baldassare, squeezing Luca’s hip. “For now, I have a message for your handlers. I was told that you could commit it to memory?”

“Yes, sir.”

The message was a string of coordinates. Baldassare read them off a piece of paper. Once he’d finished, he looked at Luca doubtfully.

“So many numbers. I don’t know how your handlers expect you to remember them all. To be frank, this seems like a rather dicey method of conveyance.”

“May I recite them back to you, sir?”

Baldassare nodded. Luca opened the little drawer in his mind and unspooled the coordinates, reading them aloud exactly as they’d been read to him. When he reached the end, Baldassare clapped.

“Very good! You’re like one of those songbirds who can sing a whole aria from memory. Have you ever been to Irjivi?”

It took Luca a moment to realize that he had been asked a question—a real question, one that required an answer. 

“No, sir. No, I’ve never—I was born in the Territories and then Master Commissioner brought me to Lyonesse. I’ve never been anywhere else.”

Luca knew that he was talking too much, babbling like an idiot, but he couldn’t help it. He hadn’t had a real conversation in— _Years_ , his mind whispered again, and he thought this time it might be right. 

“Ah, what a pity,” Baldassare sighed. “It’s the most beautiful place in the world. The whole city is made of white stone. At noon, when the sun is high, the buildings seem to blaze like funeral pyres. And the songbirds—this is why it came to mind—the songbirds flock on the roofs and the fruit trees along the avenues. When the bells ring for morning prayer, they all fly up at once. The Irjivish call them dawnbringers.”

Luca listened, mesmerized. He could see the birds so vividly, like handfuls of colored paper tossed into the sky. Watching them soar, he felt something lift in his chest. He pressed unconsciously into Baldassare’s hand, seeking like an animal for warmth.

“Affectionate little thing, aren’t you?” the Ambassador chuckled, pulling Luca closer. “We have a story in Ermin of soldiers from Padria who hid in a wooden horse that was given to a rival city as a gift. When they were inside the walls, they came out of the horse and slaughtered their enemies.” He nipped Luca’s ear. “If only the Padrians had thought to use a boy like you instead. Who knows how many cities would have fallen?”

Luca thought that this was an apt metaphor. A lot of men had been inside of him.

As if reading his mind, Baldassare parted Luca’s legs and reached between them. Finding him already prepared, Baldassare made an appreciative noise. Luca wondered if he could feel how raw the passage was. The Ambassador had been so kind to him; Luca hoped he wouldn’t bleed too badly.

“I do hope that Kenever will prove as obliging a host as Ademar,” Baldassare sighed. “Now, my dear, we’ve dispensed with business; the next course is pleasure. I’ve been dying to see if the Golden Bird is as sweet as they say.”

Luca tried to be sweet for the Ambassador. The torn places inside of him reopened when Baldassare pushed in, but that was all right, that was nothing. Luca barely felt it. Baldassare’s cock was small and he was wonderfully gentle, thrusting lazily as he whispered Luca’s name. 

His _name._ Luca had almost forgotten what it sounded like. He went shivery with gratitude, clinging to Baldassare like a child. 

Baldassare came with a pleased sigh. When he pulled his cock out, there was only a little blood. Still, he looked dismayed. 

“I haven’t damaged you, my dear?”

“No, sir. May I clean you?”

Baldassare let Luca lick his cock until it was spotless, then pushed him away. Luca couldn’t help the whimper of desperation that escaped. _Let me keep going_ , he wanted to beg. _Don’t send me back to him_. 

But Baldassare only chuckled and patted Luca’s cheek. 

“Come now. I would gladly play with you all night, but if I keep you any longer your master will send the hounds to bring you back.”

The carnival had been going on for days. There was so much noise in the banquet hall that the crystal chandeliers quivered, sending a kaleidoscope of splintered light over the merrymakers. Screams and laughter mingled into a single note that rang on and on.

The King sat at the far wall, as though the carnival were a feast and his throne the head of the table. He’d had as little sleep as Luca. Still, his eyes, sunk in shadow, burned with a fixed, glittering alertness. His velvet robes were open to his chest, golden chains of office tangled around his neck. In his hand was a goblet. Luca knew without having to look that the surface would be iridescent with bliss.

The current of fear in Luca’s veins rose like a tide answering the pull of the moon. He crawled up the dais and knelt beside his master’s throne. The King ignored him; his attention was on the bout at the center of the room, Ged against a stonelike fighter with Rafe Carlyle’s brand. The fighter was fresh, but Ged had been in the ring for hours. Blood was caked on him like a second armor; he gritted his teeth with the effort of wielding his greatsword.

Luca felt the brush of fingers on his hair and went still. 

“The fighter is an Achean from Thesselon,” said the King. “Purchased at great cost, I’m told. If he routs the barbarian, I’ll have him slick you up with blood and fuck you on the body.”

Luca closed his eyes. He thought of songbirds beating their wings against the sky.

The Steward approached the dais and went to one knee. Though the gesture was smooth, he wobbled slightly with exhaustion.

“Imperial Majesty, may I present the Most Honorable Lord Argent, Grand Chancellor of the Royal Council and Master of Lightcliffe Hall, and his heir, Lord Robert Argent III?”

Luca went hot and cold. Without looking away from the fight, the King gave the signal for them to be admitted into the presence. He kept his other hand on Luca’s hair, stroking lightly. Could he feel how Luca trembled? Lady, let him think it was only fear.

From the corner of his eye, Luca saw two black-clad figures climb the dais. One was tall, rangy, with close-cropped red hair, and the other white-haired, his legs twisted, posture stiff with age and dignity. The taller man helped the twisted one go to his knee.

“You’re back from Ibrerra early,” said the King, giving the sign for them to rise. “Should I take it as an omen of good or ill?”

“Of utmost good, Your Majesty,” said Lord Argent. His voice was as sharp as the cracking of a cane on skin. “Our business with the Grandee went even better than anticipated. He is willing to commit a squadron in exchange for the small matter of Solas backing his claim to some land on the Northern Peninsula.”

“What does he want it for?” yawned the King.

It was Robert who answered. He sounded completely unchanged, as though no time had passed at all. Luca knew that if he looked up (a fatal impertinence; the King would have him ripped apart by dogs), he’d see the same Robert who used to kiss him breathless. It was such sweet agony to have him near that Luca had to dig his fingernails into his palms to keep from screaming.

“Well, Your Majesty,” said Robert, “the Grandee spun a fine tale about his grandfather landing there after his exile from Ermin, but the truth is that His Excellency cares for nothing but the hunt. Someone happened to tell him that the roebuck in this particular forest have the most distinguished antlers on the Continent.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Luca could hear his smile. “His Excellency even granted us the honor of seeing the wall upon which he plans to mount the best specimens.”

The King snorted. 

“What an ass.”

Luca was watching the King’s hands. When he gave the signal for wine, Luca rose at once. He tried to narrow his mind to the task, but Robert was so close. Under the reek of sex (his own reek—Lady, he was filthy), Luca could detect the clean smell of Robert. Smoke, ink, sword oil. If Luca reached out now, he might even be able to brush Robert’s sleeve before the punishment started. He might have time to see Robert pull away in disgust.

Instead, Luca took the carafe of wine from the silent attendant and filled his master’s cup. He shivered as the King ran a hand up the backs of his legs. There was cum drying on Luca’s thighs and more leaking out of him, his hole too sloppy to hold it in. The King smeared his fingers in the mess before pushing them inside of Luca.

“I’ve been thinking about ordering a hunt myself, as it happens,” said the King. Luca’s breath hitched as he pushed deeper, the pressure unhurried and inescapable. “The envoy to Aksuma told me that there lives a tribe of people in the bush no taller than a man’s waist. It would be great fun to see those little legs scampering away as one levelled one’s crossbow, would it not?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Lord Argent. “What a novel entertainment.”

“Anything to break the monotony,” the King sighed. 

He had four fingers in Luca and a thumb teasing his rim. Could Robert see what the King was doing? Was he watching Luca take it? Luca didn’t know. He wasn’t breathing. He wanted so much to die, but he knew that he wasn’t allowed. His master would decide when he died, and there wouldn’t be enough of Luca left by then to beg.

A cry cleaved the smoky air. _Ged_. Luca heard the sound of something sharp going into something wet; a gurgle, a thud. Harsh panting, audible even over the noise of the hall. 

Luca was pierced through with a dread so intense that he felt light-headed. It was wrong to pray for death, but still, he begged the Lady to make it the Achean who fell. 

“And the barbarian remains unvanquished,” said the King, yawning. “It’s almost a pity. I find myself beginning to tire of him.” 

He pulled his fingers out of Luca and slapped his hip. 

“Get on with it, whore. You know what to do.”

Luca knew exactly what to do. He crawled from the King’s presence and down the dais backwards, a once-awkward maneuver that he could now perform in his sleep. When his knees hit the marble floor he rose, trying to make the movement elegant even as he shook so badly that he could hear his teeth knock together. 

Ged was on his knees, panting. He leaned his full weight on his greatsword; if not for that, he’d be on the floor next to the lump of Rafe Carlyle’s fighter. He had a cut across his chest, a stab wound in his thigh. His stomach was scored with red runnels where the fighter, disarmed, had tried to claw him open. 

Small muscles were still jumping under Ged’s skin. When Luca touched his shoulder it was blood-hot, like the flank of a horse.

They couldn’t afford to waste time. Luca dragged Ged’s face to his and pressed their mouths together. His sweat had crystallized into salt, stinging the split places where Luca’s lips had been bitten open. Luca dug his fingers into Ged’s hair and pulled him closer, trying to force him to respond with any passion, even anger. That was what the King wanted, for his pet beast to ravage his pet whore.

But Ged had spent the last of his strength on the fighter. When Luca pressed his tongue to the seam of his lips, he went limp and made a small noise of misery. 

“I hope for your sakes that this is a prelude to something more interesting,” the King called from the dais. Luca heard the clang of his goblet as he tossed it away.

“Can you take me from behind?” Luca murmured in Keld. 

Ged shook his head wretchedly. 

“My leg—”

“It’s all right. Just keep yourself up.”

Luca fell to his fours, doing his best to make it look like Ged had dragged him down. This close, the smell was almost physical, like the shimmer of heat over metal. Sweat mingled with darker odors. Luca tried to breathe through his mouth while he still could, unbuckling Ged’s leather smock and pulling off his waistcloth. He was soft, of course, his balls drawn up tight to his belly. Luca rolled them in his palm until they dropped. 

Ged moaned, more a noise of pain than pleasure. He had his face buried in the crook of his elbow. Easier that way to pretend that Luca was someone else.

“Call me by her name,” Luca whispered, stroking his cock.

“Sigrid,” Ged choked out. “Ah, Sigrid, cariad, my one—”

That did it. His shaft thickened enough for Luca to bring it into his mouth. Even half-hard, he was massive, and the angle was awkward; his cockhead scraped Luca’s palate before hitting the back of his throat. 

Lady, the taste of him. It was death itself.

“Shall I send for the dogs?” the King wondered aloud. “They can fuck whoever doesn’t die first.” 

Luca pulled back, taking Ged’s cock in his hand and rubbing it across his cheek. He hoped it looked violent, that dark wet length against his bruised face.

“Ged, please, he’ll do it, you know he will—I can cry but it has to seem real, you have to be rough with me, _please_ —”

Ged shook his head, eyes still squeezed shut. 

“I can’t,” he whispered.

Luca wanted to sob with frustration. He’d never had to convince a man to hurt him before. He grabbed Ged’s hand and dragged it to his head, tangling bloodstained fingers in his hair as he forced his mouth down on Ged’s cock. _Like this. See?_

He held Ged’s wrist, keeping his hand in position as he fucked his own face. He could only hope that it looked like Ged was forcing him instead of the other way around.

Luca was glad of the bad angle now. It was easy to choke himself until his eyes and nose were streaming, drool and precum slopping down his chin. Easy to pretend that the wetness in his eyes was nothing more than his body’s response to being battered into.

Ged panted raggedly. He listed like a felled tree, shaking with the effort of holding himself up. If he passed out before the King could see them fuck—Luca didn’t want to think about it. 

He drew back, letting the audience see the pearly strands spooling between his lips and Ged’s cockhead. Then he pushed Ged onto his back and climbed on top of him. 

Ged was too exhausted to break his own fall. He hit the floor with a queasy slap, flesh on blood on marble. He gazed up with eyes so full of suffering that Luca had to look away.

Fortunately Ged was still hard enough for Luca to sink down on him. Luca’s gasp of pain was swallowed by applause from the crowd of onlookers. 

It hurt so much. Like being impaled, only without the relief of dying after. 

Luca forced himself to move, setting a pace too brutal to give either of them time to think. He knew that Ged would go soft if he saw pain in his face, so Luca threw his head back with feigned passion and drove his teeth into his lip to keep small noises from betraying him. Candlelight shivered on the crystal chandeliers, casting a flickering pantomime across the ceiling. It was like watching a great fire reflected in a mirror. 

Luca let the dancing flames draw him up, out of the wreckage of his body. He rose, weightless, a mote of dust in the light.

From that vantage, Luca could feel the King’s attention shift elsewhere. He heard Robert’s voice, rich with humor. Telling a joke, perhaps, with Luca as the punchline. 

The King laughed. He shouted for more wine.

Luca leaned down, brushing his lips to Ged’s ear. He whispered, “I have a message.”

Ged’s mouth tightened into a grim line. He jerked a nod, fingers digging into Luca’s thighs. 

“ _A privateer waits for its master at Breakwater,_ ” Luca recited. “ _Look for the man with the red hands. He comes with friends._ ”

“These fucking wolves and their drama,” said Ged between clenched teeth.

The word he used, _vúlfar_ , in that tone of tired, mocking hatred—for a moment Luca heard his father’s voice again, echoing from deep memory. _Dæmun vúlfar_ , so smart they sat in their own traps.

What would his father think if he could see Luca now, riding one of his own on command with the mark of the _vúlfmáistir_ burned into his back?

Luca shook himself. He had no right to think about his father.

“Do you know who to give the message to?” Luca whispered, keeping his weight on his heels so he wouldn’t jostle Ged’s wounded leg.

“Swordmaster’s boy. Same as always.”

“I am falling asleep!” the King sing-songed from the dais.

“Ged, please, you know what he wants to see,” Luca whispered urgently. “We have to.”

Ged’s face crumpled, but he nodded. He took a deep breath, steeling himself. Then he took Luca by the waist and threw him down onto his knees. Luca moved with him, trying to make the impact look more painful than it was. Ged shoved Luca’s face into the floor with one hand and lined up his cock with the other. 

Luca spread his legs and arched his back, using his body to beg. _Fuck me. Make it hurt._

Ged thrust in, throwing his full weight behind it. He dragged out, then rutted into Luca hard and fast, snapping his hips so that the slap of flesh resounded through the hall. The ambient noise died down as various currents of activity converged to watch them. 

Luca felt the King’s gaze like a hand pressed to his throat. He knew what his master wanted to see. 

Grabbing Ged’s hip, Luca shoved back on him, trying to find an angle to tear himself. It wouldn’t be enough for the King to see blood on Ged’s cock; it had to run down Luca’s legs, mingling with the rest of the filth.

“Harder, harder, I have to _bleed_ —”

Ged understood. He gave a broken sob. Then he slammed into Luca at a new angle, using his cock like a knife to split him open. Luca heard drops of blood patter on the marble. He felt no pain, only relief.

“Thank you,” Luca whispered.

Ged choked out a hysterical laugh. 

“Lady, don’t—don’t thank me for that—”

Luca could feel him flagging. _No._ He couldn’t go soft now, not when they were so close. Luca touched his ankle, the gesture pleading.

“It’s almost over,” he gasped. “Ged, my hair—”

Ged grabbed a handful of Luca’s hair and dragged him up onto his fours. He was chanting Sigrid’s name like a prayer. The lords were clapping in time to his thrusts, jeering encouragement, but they were easy for Luca to ignore. The King was all that mattered. Luca was the sole object of his attention now. It was like staring into the eyes of a snake as its coils drew tighter.

The lords broke into applause as Ged came with a cry of defeat. He collapsed on Luca’s back, panting or weeping or both.

“I’m sorry. Lady forgive me, lad, I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Luca whispered, squeezing Ged’s ankle. His voice was so thin that he almost couldn’t hear himself. “ _Hwylfar ófriðr_.” 

_Until the next battle_. It was what the shieldsworn said in parting. 

Ged brushed his fingers against Luca’s wrist. 

“ _Hwylfar ófriðr_ , little one.”

His weight lifted, leaving Luca gasping with the sudden emptiness. He was shaking so badly that he could barely keep himself up. Shadows crowded his vision. He saw nothing but the King’s hands.

When his master gave the sign to stand, Luca was pulled to his feet as if by an irresistible force. He stumbled forward, the room sliding around him like water through ink. Nothing seemed real except the figure reclining on the throne. Even Robert was like a figment from a dream, or a nightmare. Luca couldn’t tell them apart anymore. 

He reached the top of the dais. Before he could kneel, the King grabbed his arms and dragged him in, crushing their mouths together. Blood trickled from Luca’s lip; the King licked it away. Distantly, Luca heard the lords applaud. Was this punishment or reward? Was there any difference?

“Time to conclude the festivities, I think,” said the King, not taking his eyes from Luca’s face. “I’m ready for bed.”

After, Luca would remember only fragments. Fingernails slicing into his thighs. A cock-sleeve ribbed with iron teeth. The eyes of the boy in the mirror, as distant and lightless as collapsed stars. And then a fist pushed so deep inside of him that he fell out of his body and up into the glass. 

Floating on that cold smooth surface, Luca watched the boy on the bed convulse. The man stroked his face tenderly, mouth moving without sound. Blood trickled down the join of his wrist. Luca wondered distantly if the man meant to pluck out the boy’s heart. If he would find an empty cavity, scored with the marks of other hands.

After, Luca came back to himself in pieces. He became aware of the shiver of his skin under a caressing touch. The taste of salt and iron. He heard some animal making soft, ruined noises and felt a rush of hatred so intense it was almost unbearable. 

_They should kill it,_ he thought. _Put it out of its misery._

Nothing that sounded like that should be allowed to survive.

“Oh dear,” murmured the King, petting Luca’s hair. “I begin to fear I’ve broken you.”

Luca opened his eyes. Funny; he hadn’t realized they had been closed.

In the mirror he saw a pale skinny body, blood and cum on its face and leaking into the bedsheets from between its open legs. 

Next to the body lounged the King, propped up on his elbow. He wore a quilted dressing gown. The royal signet glinted on his finger. He hadn’t taken the ring off, Luca remembered now. Of course not; why would he? There was blood drying in the grooves, as though the seal of Solas had been picked out with rubies. 

“Ah, there you are,” said the King. 

In the mirror, the man brushed a sweat-curled lock of hair back from the body’s forehead. Luca felt the gesture only remotely. It was as though the man was touching someone else.

“I’ve never had a whore who can take as much as you. Astonishing, really; you look so delicate.” 

The King wrapped a curl around his finger, admiring the way the color blended with the gold of his ring. 

“It must be true what they say about barbarians,” he went on. “You don’t feel pain like normal people do.” 

The King tipped Luca’s face to him. Luca had the vertiginous sensation of sliding back into his body. It hurt everywhere. A sob caught in his throat. The sound was familiar. With a shudder, Luca realized that the animal making those pathetic noises was him.

“Still, for all I like to see that beautiful face stained with tears, I _do_ want you to last,” the King sighed. “In the ordinary way of things I’m not bothered about using a boy up, but I would be terribly put out if I could no longer enjoy you.” 

Suddenly he laughed, face glowing with mad delight. 

“Do you know, whore, I think I love you! How novel. I’ve never been in love before.”

It was the worst joke Luca had ever heard. A hysterical laugh bubbled in his throat, but he swallowed it. He’d swallowed worse.

“You deserve a reward for that. I shall have to think what.” The King stretched, yawning. “Father of Hosts, you do wear a man out.” 

He kissed Luca’s damp temple. 

“Sweet dreams, my love.”

The King shoved Luca out of the bed. Darkness claimed him before he hit the ground.

Robert was throwing up. He’d shouted for the carriage to pull over just in time; now he was knee-deep in somebody’s rosebushes, nausea wracking him in waves.

“We were storm-tossed from Peer’s Quay to the Mouth of Cádiz, and you weren’t sick once,” Grandfather called from inside the box.

Robert leaned against the side of the carriage, using coachman’s handkerchief to wipe his mouth. 

“The Grey Sisters are pulling my leg, I think.”

“Well, they saw fit to send us a fine wind on the voyage back, so I suppose it’s price for passage.”

“You only say that because it isn’t your stomach they’re wreaking merry vengeance on,” Robert retorted, climbing back into the box. 

Grandfather smiled and was about to reply before the carriage lurched forward. The color drained from his face; he grabbed at the wall with a gnarled hand to steady himself. Robert rapped on the roof with the knob of his walking stick.

“For gods’ sake, man, have a care!”

“The horses are getting old,” said Grandfather, easing himself back against the seat. “As am I.”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Grandfather. You’re in the prime of your life.”

Grandfather scoffed, but Robert saw him sit a bit straighter, gripping his cane with renewed strength. 

“His Majesty seemed pleased with our success in Ibrerra,” said Grandfather. 

“You neglected to mention that the woods the Grandee wants is in Waldemar of Spangenberg’s backyard.”

“Melchior forgive the omission,” said Grandfather, turning his eyes heavenward.

“Good thing those backwater princelings are too busy plotting against each other to notice a few roebuck gone missing.”

“My thoughts exactly,” said Grandfather with an approving smile. “And I ought to commend you, Robert. You were remarkably composed watching your little barbarian perform tonight.”

“That whore? Gods know what I ever saw in him. As always, Grandfather, you've preserved me from my own folly.”

When they arrived at Lightcliffe, Tolliver waiting in the grand foyer to greet them. He’d lined up all the high servants on either side of the hall, from the cook and the housekeeper down to the valets and footmen.

“Welcome back to Lightcliffe, my lords,” he said with a bow. “I hope it was an easy voyage?”

Robert and Grandfather looked at each other and grinned.

“It had its ups and downs,” said Robert, “but Father of Hosts, it’s good to be home.”

The footmen took their coats and hats. Handing over his walking stick, Robert was struck by the memory of Tolliver confiscating all of Robbie’s knives before his first bath. How strange to think of that half-feral child skulking around Lightcliffe. Like catching a glimpse of himself in a mirror and not recognizing the reflection.

Robert and Grandfather made their goodnights and adjourned to their rooms. Tolliver accompanied Robert with the thin excuse of wanting to help him with his toilette. 

“May I be so bold as to inquire whether my lord met any suitable young ladies on his travels?” asked Tolliver, undoing Robert’s necktie and removing his collar.

“You know Grandfather,” Robert sighed. “At every dinner he arranged to have the local stock brought out and paraded around the table.”

“My lord Argent is keen to see you wed.”

“Oh, believe me, I know. Unfortunately he didn’t think much of what Ibrerra had to offer in the way of marriageable females. There seems to be a strain of buckteeth and inadequate dowries.”

“What a pity. It will be good to have you settled down, my lord.”

“Yes, we all so eagerly await that happy occasion.” 

Robert let Tolliver help him out of his waistcoat and dress shirt, then made the sign for him to go. 

“That’ll be all, Tolliver.”

“Very good, my lord.”

“Oh, and bring the boy, will you?”

“Of course, my lord.”

Tolliver bowed himself out. The moment the door clicked shut, Robert let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He pushed his hair back with both hands, feeling distant surprise that it was so short.

The taste of bile lingered at the back of his throat.

Robert unlocked the top drawer of his desk. Upon finding his cigarettes and a fifth of whiskey still there, he blessed the great and little gods by name. Tolliver may have appointed himself the one-man Vice Squad of Lightcliffe Hall, but even he wouldn’t go so far as to pick the lock on Lord Robert’s private desk.

Robert poured himself a finger of whiskey, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. His hands had almost stopped shaking; only a few drops splashed on the white of his undershirt.

There came a knock at the door. Robert hastily flung the windows open and sat on the ledge. 

“Come!” he called.

Tolliver entered, dragging a sullen boy by the arm. He was strikingly good-looking, even with his cheek scarred and his right ear marred and distended like a boxer’s. 

When he saw Robert, the boy’s amber eyes went wide. He tried to twist out of Tolliver’s grasp, but the butler held him fast.

“I see that my lord has decided to reject the housekeeper’s increasingly despondent requests that he not smoke inside,” said Tolliver drily.

“I’m not smoking inside, I’m smoking out of the window,” said Robert, holding the cigarette as far as he could reach. “See? This arm isn’t even inside the building.”

Tolliver’s sigh was a symphony of disapproval. 

“As you say, my lord. Shall I send someone to collect the boy once you’ve finished with him?”

“No, I’ll keep him for the night.”

The boy backed into the doorway. 

“No, no, don’t leave me with him, _please_ —”

“You will behave yourself for his lordship,” Tolliver said, his tone promising untold torments should the order be disobeyed. To Robert, he said, “Enjoy your evening, my lord. It is a respite well-deserved.”

Tolliver shoved the boy into Robert’s room. Then he bowed and withdrew. 

The moment he was out of earshot, Robert grabbed a bolster from the window-seat and threw it at Asher’s head.

“You rotten little ham.”

Asher caught the bolster, grinning. 

“He’ll never believe that you’re raping me if I go skipping down the hall to your room, m’lord.”

“Still, don’t you think you’re overplaying the part? At this rate you’ll have him convinced I’m a monster.”

Asher tossed the bolster onto the bed and fetched his own pack of smokes out of his uniform. 

“Speaking of which,” he said around his cigarette, leaning in so Robert could light it. “How was Highcourt?”

Robert held up his palms so that Asher could see the bloody half-moons his fingernails had left in the skin. 

“I emptied my stomach afterward, if that’s any indication,” he said.

Asher winced.

“Elif says you did good work in Ibrerra, anyway. The Grandee’s sister’s been in touch.”

“Lady Elixabet is an ambitious woman. She was tilting at me like a jouster in the lists.”

“Nobody told her you’re a boyfucker?” said Asher, laughing.

“Oh, they did. She seemed to view it as a minor obstacle.”

What Robert didn’t add was that Grandfather had become so strident on the subject of marriage that he’d almost been tempted to give in to Elixabet’s advances. But then Robert thought of Luca’s liquid eyes and the way he sucked his bottom lip when he was thinking, and marriage seemed suddenly like the punchline to a bad joke.

As if reading that thought on his face, Asher asked, “Is your grandfather still trying to pimp you out like a stud slave?”

“Yes, he and Elixabet share a kindred optimism on that subject,” said Robert, wincing. 

“You get into it again?”

“No point. At least he can’t put on the market here in Solas. Not even a Midland squire’s daughter would have a bastard with a mystery for a mother, even if he is the Grand Chancellor’s heir.”

“And Argent wouldn’t let you marry a squire’s daughter, even if she was keen.”

“Exactly,” said Robert, rolling his eyes. “Thank gods he’s such a despicable snob. Anyway, it’ll all be moot once we move against Ademar.” 

Robert lit a new cigarette from the dog-ear of the last one and flung the butt out of the window with unnecessary force. 

“Gods, I hope I’m there when they arrest the lords,” he said. “I hope they hang the whole bloody Council in Marlebone Square.”

“Argent included?”

“After what he did to Luca, I’ll tie the noose myself.” 

At Luca’s name, Asher flinched. Then, schooling his face into an expression of nonchalance, he asked, “Did you see him? How is he?”

Robert took a long drag of his cigarette to keep from having to answer. What could he say to that, anyway? He was hardly goin tell Asher that his best friend had been violated so intimately and unceasingly that he now resembled the walking dead. How could Asher ever forgive Robert for that? Fields of hell, how could Luca? Robert had already vowed to spend the rest of his life crawling like a worm if that’s what it took to earn redemption in Luca’s eyes, but he knew that he would never be able to forgive himself.

When Robert said nothing, Asher crossed his arms and scowled.

“You can’t just keep things from me, you know,” he muttered. “I’m not a child.”

“Then don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to,” said Robert, knocking back his whiskey.

“Luca’s stronger than he looks. If he survived the Harlequin, he can survive anything.”

Asher was so obviously trying to convince himself that it would’ve been heartrending if Robert still had a heart to rend. But he’d gotten too good at separating himself from his emotions. Almost disturbing, wasn’t it, how easy it had been to sink back into numbness? Perhaps there was some core of ice in Robert that only Luca could thaw.

“The Harlequin was a bed of roses compared to Highcourt,” said Robert, not bothering to soften the blow. “It’s a miracle Luca’s lasted this long. If Kemp doesn’t tip the first domino by the end of the month, I’m going to make a play for him.”

“You got a plan?” said Asher, eyeing Robert warily.

Robert had hundreds of plans, none of them likely to succeed. The seray lay at the heart of the old part of the palace; it was near the King’s bedchamber, which meant that Luca was more heavily guarded than the Royal Treasury. The only time he was let out of the seray was when he was in Ademar’s company, and even Robert wasn’t desperate enough to snatch him in broad sight. Unless…

“Don’t do anything stupid,” said Asher, as if reading that thought on Robert’s face. “Mama Karga says the trap’s set. She wants you to meet your man tomorrow. Same time, same place.”

Robert downed the last of his whiskey. It would be good to see Hugo again, even if he had been drawn so deeply into Kemp’s web that half the time it was like speaking to a stranger.

“You want bed or couch?” Robert asked.

“I’ll take bed.” Seeing Robert’s expression, Asher laughed. “The cots in the servant’s quarters aren’t stuffed with goosefeathers, m’lord. Anyway, we both know you’ll be up all night brooding.”

Robert had to admit that Asher had a point. He’d never been a sound sleeper, and these days he was lucky if he got a few hours before being awoken by a dream of Luca laying under the King, as silent and unresisting as a corpse. 

Robert took the fifth of whiskey from his waistcoat and poured a nip, promising himself that he’d drink this one more slowly. That he wouldn’t have another after. 

Asher grabbed one of Robert’s nightshirts from his dresser and changed behind the folding screen in the corner. That was progress, at least; in the early days, he’d sleep in his uniform rather than remove a stitch of clothing in Robert’s presence. 

Not that Robert took it personally. Asher had his own nightmares.

Robert leaned against the windowsill and lit another cigarette. He heard Asher slide under the sheets, toss to settle himself, and then bolt upright.

“If you touch me—”

“You’ll wake up and break my nose,” said Robert without turning.

“I know you’re not going to. I just—”

“I know,” said Robert, flicking ash into the cool air. “Good night, Asher.”

“Yeah. Try to sleep, okay?”

Robert listened to Asher’s breathing slow as he drifted off. When he heard snores muffled into the pillow, Robert balanced his tumbler and cigarette on the ledge and stood. He moved soundlessly to the bed. 

A froth of black curls fell over Asher’s forehead. His eyes moved restlessly under his lids, fingers digging into the pillow so hard his knuckles were bloodless. Fighting demons in his sleep again.

Slowly, careful not to touch him, Robert pulled the blankets up to Asher’s chin. 

Asher huffed out a sigh. His fingers loosened their grip on the pillow.

“ _Nótsjá melys, fanachǫr,_ ” Robert murmured in Keld. “ _Valgwyd lach_.” 

_Sweet dreams, little arrow. Kill them all._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again posting early because 1) I lack self-control and 2) I've gotten some well-meant and well-taken requests for some goddamn COMFORT with all this hurt. The next few chapters are written, but I'm going to try to hold off on posting them til Part II is finished. We'll see whether my will holds.
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are deeply appreciated.

Married life suited Adrian Courtney. He was dressed like a spice mogul in black velvet and canary-colored silk, with lace at his throat and cuffs. Robert was fascinated by his vest, which was upholstered with downy white feathers that quivered as he cut into his steak.

“Did you eat the chickens after you plucked them?” Robert asked.

Adrian glared across the table. 

“For your information, these feathers were harvested by virgins from the sacred ibis of Enkaare,” he said stiffly.

“If virgins were involved in the making of that vest, they were sturdy Midland poultry-maids one roll in the haystack away from feather-harvesting retirement.” 

“These are _not_ chicken feathers!”

The Steward materialized at Robert’s elbow.

“His Imperial Majesty extends my lord Argent the invitation to dine with him in the Grand Chancellor’s stead,” said the Steward with a bow.

Robert was treated to the sight of Adrian’s face turning colors. It was almost worth turning down the invitation just to stay and torment him further. 

But no one refused the King.

“I would be honored,” said Robert, standing. To Adrian, he said, “Give my condolences to the new Lady Courtney. Or is it congratulations? I can never keep the two straight.”

He didn’t give Adrian time to retort before sweeping off in the Steward’s wake.

The Royal Table was raised on a low dais. The King’s seat had been elevated further in order to give the impression that he was half a head taller than everyone else at the table. At his right hand sat Rafe Carlyle. Alike as they were, the King was by far the better-looking of the two. Rafe had a mocking set to his mouth, ill-disguised by a neatly trimmed moustache. 

He was set off poorly, too, seated between Ademar and Edmund Carlyle. Rafe’s elder brother had the generic lantern-jawed handsomeness of a ballad hero. His lighter hair had been tinted with henna to deepen the red.

Also at the table was the Kharati Minister of Agriculture, a peevish man in spectacles and a plain sherwani. His interpreter stood behind him, arms demurely folded. Next to him sat that loathsome little Erminian—Baldassare, Robert thought his name was. He oozed around Highcourt like a smug streak of oil. Mirroring his self-satisfied expression was Lord Raleigh, a political creature so old and dry he would not have been out of place in the University museum.

Robert went to one knee, then stood at Ademar’s signal. A servant appeared with a chair. Robert sat, flanked by Edmund Carlyle on one side and the Kharati minister on the other.

“Robert the younger,” Ademar drawled. “We were just discussing you.”

“All good things, I hope, Your Majesty.”

The corners of Ademar’s mouth quirked up. 

“Would you have me speak well of you, or would you rather I find you interesting?”

Robert knew a test when he heard one. 

“Both, Your Majesty, but if I had to choose, I’d fain be interesting. What was it Aximander said? _Priests may praise the good, but only the wicked are truly worthy of remark._ ”

From Ademar’s chuckle, Robert took it that this answer had been the right one. There was a sense of collective exhale.

“Such a shame your grandfather couldn’t make it, Argent,” said Lord Raleigh, dripping with false sympathy. “The Grand Chancellor’s health is of paramount importance to the Council.”

 _And you can’t wait for the old goat to die,_ thought Robert sourly. Raleigh would be first in line to snatch up the Grand Chancellor’s chain of office. No doubt he planned to make his move before Grandfather’s body was even cold. 

Aloud, Robert said, “Your concern is appreciated, my lord. I’ll convey your best wishes to His Excellency.”

Ademar signaled for wine. Luca materialized as if from nowhere, carrying a crystal decanter. Gods, being this near to him was like pressure on an open wound. Robert couldn’t say whether it helped or harmed; only that the sensation was so intense it stole his breath.

The last time Robert saw him, Luca was being raped bloody by a gladiator while an audience of lords cheered them on. It had taken all of Robert’s willpower to keep from charging down the dais and pulling the beast off of him. But the death that would’ve earned them both couldn’t possibly be worth having Luca in his arms for a moment before the guards dragged them apart.

Was it better or worse to see Luca like this, wearing a harness of thin gold chains attached to his nipple rings and filling the King’s cup? Both, perhaps. If Luca bore injuries from what he’d endured at the carnival last week, Robert couldn’t tell. He moved as elegantly as always, the delicate lines of his body accentuated by the arabesques that had been painted on his skin in gold leaf. 

“What beautiful decoration,” said the Erminian ambassador. 

In his accent, the words sounded even more lascivious. He was eating Luca with his eyes. 

“Yes, I thought it was a nice touch.” Ademar flaked the paint from an arabesque on Luca’s inner thigh, revealing a livid purple bruise. “Such perfect skin, and so easy to mark.”

Robert realized that he was holding his breadknife like a switchblade and staring far too intently at the soft of Ademar’s throat. He forced himself to relax. 

Ademar made a sign for a servant to take the decanter. Without it, Luca seemed even more defenseless. 

“I offered the boy to our friend from Kharat, but the interpreter tells me that he only enjoys women,” Ademar went on, idly tracing a flourish of paint up under Luca’s sheer waistcloth. “Isn’t that strange? He must have a host of bastards back in Sindratha.”

The Minister had been scowling into his bowl of vichyssoise. He looked up upon hearing _Kharat_ , but the interpreter had suddenly become interested in the pattern of the ceiling tiles.

“You really have to wonder about the man,” said Rafe Carlyle, giving the Minister a mocking smile. “Only a eunuch would turn down a night with the Golden Bird. Wouldn’t you agree, General?”

For the first time, Robert noticed the trim, grim man seated to the King’s left. General Hector Balkas, the excuse for tonight’s celebration. His victory at Angarrick had sent Kenever’s forces back to the border. He sat stiffly in his dress uniform, looking more like a boy playing dress-up than a decorated war hero.

“I—uh, whatever you say, Your Highness.” With his fork, Balkas poked suspiciously at a fatty bundle of tripoux. “I prefer women, myself.”

“But officers can’t marry,” said Edmund, knitting his brow. “Do you have a consort, or do you prefer whores?”

Balkas choked on his tripoux, much to the amusement of the table.

“I think we should take that as a _no_ , cousins,” said Ademar. His hand rested on Luca’s hip, thumb tracing the crest. “Abstention can be noble, of course, when practiced for short periods of time. But if carried to excess, it becomes morbid and unhealthy.” 

“Everything must get rather backed up, mustn’t it?” said Edmund thoughtfully. “Like constipation in the testicles. Have you experienced that, General?”

Balkas was brick red and sweating. He stared up at the ceiling, as though he might find some rescue there. 

“I think we’re making the General uncomfortable,” said Rafe, swilling the wine around in his glass. 

“Yes,” said Ademar, “I was under the impression that soldiers were quite shockingly indecorous about matters of sex, yet here he is blushing like a schoolgirl.”

Watching them, Robert had the sudden image of three boys surrounding a small creature in order to torment it. But of course; Rafe and Edmund’s mother Amelia was Ademar’s aunt. They’d grown up together. No wonder they used their rank as a ledge to piss off of. They’d clearly had a lot of practice aiming as a team.

“What do you think of the Golden Bird, then, General?” asked Ademar. 

As he spoke, he pulled Luca onto his lap, hooking thin, bruised legs over his knees to spread them. Luca couldn’t grab Ademar or the table to steady himself; he put his hands palm-up on his knees, the muscles of his thighs and stomach taut with the effort of keeping his balance. He gazed off into the middle distance. His face was a perfect blank.

Balkas flicked a glance at Luca and turned, if possible, even redder. 

“He’s, um. I’ve never—I didn’t think barbarians could look like that.”

“Yes, they’re not a race famed for beauty,” said Ademar. “I’ve often wondered if the gods made this one as a sort of joke.”

Casually, he pulled up Luca’s waistcloth. With his legs spread like this, they could all see the toy inside of him. Robert looked away—too quickly; he caught Rafe regarding him, his reptilian eyes bright with interest.

“I like to keep him ready to use,” Ademar explained, circling the base of the toy with a fingertip. “If I offered him to you for the night, General, would you break your vow of celibacy?” 

“It isn’t a _vow_ , Your Majesty,” said Balkas, looking pained. “I’m a very busy man, what with the war and all. Besides, when a fellow’s on the march, in the field, that sort of thing doesn’t—well, it doesn’t, um, come up, I suppose.”

“It’s a good thing your generals aren’t chosen for their eloquence, cousin,” Rafe remarked.

“Yes, we may very well have lost at Angarrick if that were the case,” Ademar agreed. “But, General, you haven’t answered my question.”

“Your Majesty is too generous,” said Balkas, sweating. “I—well, he’s, um, he’s beautiful, really, but I haven’t—with a boy, I’ve never—”

The table broke into astonished laughter. The Kharati minister looked up at the interpreter again, but the man could only spread his hands and smile weakly.

“You must be joking,” said Raleigh, eyes sparkling with genial malice. “Your Majesty, please, allow an old man to protest. Giving the Golden Bird to Balkas would be like serving a bottle of the finest Erminian wine to a man who can’t even appreciate the vintage. Don’t you think so, Ambassador?”

Baldassare bowed his head. 

“As an Erminian and one who has had the honor of enjoying the Jewel of Solas, I must agree.”

“The Jewel of Solas,” Ademar murmured. “I like that. Jewels can crack, can’t they, under enough pressure?” 

He squeezed Luca’s nipple until it was flat between his fingertips. Luca’s head came up. His pupils were so blown that his eyes looked black. 

“I’ve never had a favorite for so long, you know,” said Ademar. “Father always said that I was careless with my toys. This one has proved remarkably resilient, but I begin to fear I’ll break him.”

Robert spoke without thinking. 

“You could—” His voice cracked. He licked his lips and tried again. “Your Majesty, you could always trade him out for another boy.”

“If only I could find another with a face like this,” Ademar sighed. “Our envoy in Baktria is sending me some fresh stock for the seray, but I fear they’ll be ill-served by the comparison. But perhaps I ought to send the Bird away for a season,” he went on thoughtfully. “I’ve never been deprived of something I want before. It might prove a diverting experiment.”

“Speaking of diversion,” said Raleigh, “will we have the pleasure of watching Your Majesty’s gladiator tonight?”

Robert’s gaze was drawn to the barbarian chained against the far wall. The man from the Centennial slaughter. It was a miracle he’d survived this long. Like Luca, he’d been painted with gold leaf. The arabesques highlighted the brutal cut of his muscles. He wore a linen chiton, like a god in a temple statue. Robert supposed that was Ademar’s idea of a joke.

“I’m afraid that I gorged myself on gladiator fights during the festivities last week,” Ademar sighed. “Even watching that brute has grown tedious.” 

He was still rolling Luca’s swollen nipple between his fingers. The gesture was almost absentminded, as though he’d simply forgotten to stop. Gods, it must be agony with the piercing, that bit of metal bruising the flesh from the inside out. 

Robert couldn’t remember exactly when he’d dropped the breadknife into his lap and covered it with a napkin, but he gripped the handle so hard his knuckles had gone white.

“Argent, you’re a crack swordsman, aren’t you?” said Edmund around a mouthful of duck cromesquis.

“Yes, I’ve heard that you were nigh unbeatable in your University days,” said Ademar.

“Of course, it’s easy to excel at University,” said Rafe. “One hardly finds any real competition anyway. The challenge is continuing one’s training afterward. I don’t expect you’ve managed to keep up with yours, Argent, what with the Grand Chancellor’s travel schedule.”

Robert returned Rafe’s look of challenge with a bland smile. 

“To the contrary, Your Highness, the Grand Chancellor has always insisted that I make my training a top priority. Travel has proved an opportunity, not an impediment. The sword is a universal language, after all, and each destination offers a new style to learn from.” 

“So you think you’re good,” said Rafe, leaning forward. 

“I am,” said Robert, “very good.”

“Then let the Star Chamber serve as a proving ground,” said Ademar. He sounded so delighted at this turn of events that Robert wondered whether he’d somehow engineered it. “I must warn you, Argent, my cousin has never met his match.”

Robert had heard of Rafe’s skill with the sword, though how much of his alleged invincibility was due to his position as the King’s favorite cousin Robert didn’t know. He was about to bet everything that he could best the unbested, and he prayed to whatever god looked after whore’s bastards that his was the winning hand.

“If I may be so bold, Your Majesty,” said Robert, “a reward might raise the stakes for both of us.”

“A bold proposal,” said Ademar, arching a brow. “What did you have in mind?”

As Robert pretended to consider, he let his gaze fall naturally on Luca. 

“How about a night with the Golden Bird?”

The shift in Luca’s expression was so subtle that Robert would have missed it if he didn’t have every inch of Luca’s face mapped with the precision of a cartographer. A spark of life appeared in his eyes—only to be extinguished in the next moment as Ademar twisted the toy inside of him.

“Bold indeed, Argent,” said Ademar softly. “Yes, I think that will do nicely. Let us adjourn to the Chamber.”

Without Council in session, the Star Chamber bore an uncomfortable resemblance to the King’s arena. Banquet guests filed in to sit in the front rows of the high-backed proscenium benches that encircled the floor. Ademar took his seat on the great throne raised on a bronze dais. Luca knelt at his feet.

Servants took Robert’s coat and jacket. His shirtsleeves were rolled up into his garters, his cravat tuckets into the pocket of his waistcoat. A footman appeared with a sword case engraved with the same royal seal that was branded into Luca’s back. 

The case opened to reveal a beautiful Ibrerran foil, perfectly balanced despite its blunted edge and rubber tip. Robert had to appreciate the absurdity of such care being taken to prevent the spilling of noble blood when those same lords forced gladiators to tear each other apart for their amusement.

Robert and Rafe took their places. Servants had marked the bounds of the makeshift piste with scattered petals. There was a holiday mood in the air; some of the lords were clearly placing bets. Watching them, Robert wondered if this was what he’d looked like to the gladiators he’d seen fight and die at the King’s banquets. Just another spectator waiting to be entertained.

Ademar had appointed Lord Andrews as the referee. The choice was a good one; Andrews might be a loathsome little bootlicker, but he also had a reputation for being one of the Grand Chancellor’s cronies. Without wanting to anger either the King or the Chancellor by favoring the other’s relative, Robert anticipated that his judgments would be strenuously impartial.

Andrews met Robert and Rafe at the midpoint. He was already sweating.

“You both know the rules. Three bouts, three minutes each. I don’t want to see any unsportsmanlike behavior, and you can expect me to award penalties with extreme prejudice. I’m sure that I don’t need to remind you both to salute each other, my lords?”

Rafe bared his teeth in a grin. Robert grinned back. Even with adrenaline fizzing in his blood, he could already feel his mind sharpening into focus. 

Rafe and Robert took their places. At Andrews’s direction, they saluted each other.

“Fence!”

Rafe advanced with easy confidence, and Robert parried just as easily. The exchange that followed was smooth, unhurried. Robert was getting a feel for Rafe’s reach, his footwork. His reputation wasn’t undeserved, but his movements were a little too practiced, a little too precise. He fought like he’d learned the craft from tutors too careful of their pupil’s rank to truly challenge him.

Then Rafe lunged, this time in earnest. He was far faster than he’d let Robert believe. Docktown had honed Robert’s reflexes to a vanishing edge, but still, he felt the buffet of air from Rafe’s foil. His retort was sloppy. Rafe parried effortlessly. This time when he lunged, the rubber point of his foil struck Robert’s chest.

“Point to Carlyle!” Andrews cried.

Rafe’s smirk was like an itch at the back of Robert’s neck. He bit back a curse. 

_Temper_ , Harrow scolded from his memory. If Robert let Rafe get under his skin, he might as well forfeit the match now.

This time Robert was determined not to underestimate his opponent. Fortunately, Rafe had begun to overestimate himself. The hit made him confident. Careless. He attacked with a series of lunges that pushed Robert to the very edge of the ring.

Robert let himself be pushed. All he needed was a moment.

This time when Rafe lunged Robert feinted. Their blades met; he slid his down and used the shift in balance to grab the hilt of Rafe’s foil, pull him to, and land a strike between his ribs. Rafe gasped, more in shock than pain.

“Point to Argent!”

They fell back. Rafe was panting, from anger or exertion Robert didn’t know.

The next bout was a pitched battle. Rafe brought his foil down in artless, cutting strokes. For all his skill, he wasn’t used to losing. Anger made him careless. Robert’s last strike may have been a piece of luck, but he wouldn’t have to rely on chance again.

When Robert parried an especially sloppy riposte, he let the corner of his mouth quirk up. That was all the provocation Rafe needed. He thrust wildly, leaving his breast open. Robert parried and struck in one movement. Even before the tip connected, Robert knew that it would hit. 

His nerves were so raw that the thunder of applause hit like cold water. Rafe threw his foil to the ground.

“Argent takes the match!” Andrews shouted over the din.

Robert could afford to be magnanimous in victory. He held out his hand to Rafe.

“Call it a fluke,” he said. “We were evenly matched.”

It wasn’t an empty courtesy. The match could easily have tipped in Rafe’s favor, and they both knew it.

But Rafe only sneered. With his hair tangled, teeth bared, face red and gleaming with sweat, he bore a disquieting resemblance to the Bacchanal satyr.

“I’ll see that you live to regret this,” he said quietly.

Before Robert could reply, Rafe turned on his heel and stalked away. 

Robert had made countless appearances at Highcourt during his time as a lord, but never before had he been an overnight guest. Apparently hospitality was serious business in the royal household. The guest suite was larger than Robert’s rooms at Lightcliffe, and even more sumptuously appointed. There were even mirrors installed on the ceiling above the bed. 

Robert dismissed the slaves arranged silently at the edges of the room. Though their faces were implacable, he caught a hint of surprise. No doubt their orders had been to wait on him for the night. Robert hoped that he wasn’t sending them off to be ill-used elsewhere in the palace.

The moment he was alone, Robert stripped off, leaving a trail of sweat-soaked clothes on the way to the bathing chamber. Water lapped at the edges of a pool sunk in the floor, steam rising from the azure surface. But whatever salts the water had been prepared with gave off the spiced, bitter smell that Robert associated with the King. He gave the pool a wide berth.

Fortunately there was a bath as well. Robert was still too nervy from the fight to take a soak; he knew from experience that he’d end up sloshing half the water onto the tiles. Instead he used the shower attachment to sluice himself off as brusquely as a groom washing down a horse after a race.

Once he was clean, Robert set about locating the towels, which were discreetly hidden behind a screen. There he also found a robe, emerald silk embroidered with silver, and loose trousers to match. The fabric felt delicious on his overheated skin. Perhaps Tolliver was right; there was an argument to made for luxury after all.

On the same table as the towels sat a long-stemmed glass and a bottle of wine. Robert read the vintage and gave a low whistle. A gift from Baldassare, no doubt. Well, no wonder he’d been allowed to ooze his way to the King’s table. 

Robert could still feel the muscles twitching in his neck and hands. He needed a cigarette badly, but a nip of Ermin’s finest would have to do. 

When Robert turned, he nearly dropped the glass. Rafe, identically dressed, stood watching him with a cool, evaluating eye. Or was it Ademar? 

But no—it was Robert’s own reflection he saw in the mirror. Gods, for a moment he hadn’t known himself. His hair was cut stylishly short, face clean-shaven. The robe he wore was perfectly tailored. The color set off his hair, his eyes, as if it had been made for him.

No, not for him. For Rafe, or Ademar. Whichever of them was actually intended to occupy this room and enjoy its prize. 

What was it Tolliver had said when he first saw Robbie? _Father of Hosts, he truly is the spitting image._ Only now did Robert realize that Tolliver hadn’t just been speaking of his father. He’d been referring to the King.

Robert didn’t have time to dwell on that nauseating thought. He heard the door of the suite open. A voice called his name.

Robert put down the glass, smoothed back his hair, and emerged from the bathing chamber—

—only to be brought up short by the sight of Ademar sitting on the bed. He wore a dressing gown of quilted damask with silver-black fur at the cuffs, and he was lounging in a pose that Robert could only call seductive. 

Luca knelt at his feet, eyes downcast. A delicate golden leash ran from his collar to Ademar’s hand. Ademar was murmuring something into his ear. He had his thumb in Luca’s mouth, and Luca was sucking on it. 

Robert froze in the doorway, too confused to go to his knee. His first thought was that the King was unguarded, unarmed. If he moved now, he could find the weak point in Ademar’s neck before he even had time to scream.

Then he heard Harrow’s voice echo from memory— _Use your head, lad!_ There were sure to be guards outside; Robert would never get out of the palace alive. Alone he might’ve risked it, but not with Luca here. They’d both end up under the interrogator’s knife, and Luca would have no one to protect him. 

Ademar gave Robert a lazy smile. He pulled his thumb from Luca’s mouth and ran it over his bottom lip in a clear gesture of possession. 

“I thought that I would deliver your prize myself.” Ademar’s hand fell on Luca’s hair. “I was even kind enough to prepare it for you.”

Robert didn’t want to think what that meant. 

“Your Majesty is too generous,” he said with a belated bow.

Ademar’s smile twisted at the corners. 

“The Generals don’t think so. Or at least that’s what my cousin Edmund tells me.” 

The remark was so unexpected that it took Robert a moment to catch up. 

“But—but, Your Majesty, the Royal Regiment followed your father into battle countless times. Their motto is _Strength Through Fealty_. The Generals—”

“The Generals think that I am profligate and depraved.”

The dispassionate statement of fact brought Robert up short. 

“Your Majesty’s officers are very loyal,” he said weakly.

“To the Crown, perhaps,” said Ademar, rolling his eyes. “But a king must command a deeper allegiance.” 

Ademar had been stroking Luca’s hair; now he tipped his head back by his chin. He gazed down at him with an expression that on a saner man might have passed for— _Oh, gods, no._

For love.

“If only High Command was as biddable as this pretty little thing,” Ademar sighed. “Unlike the Generals, my whore understands that he was made to be used by his betters.”

Ademar dropped Luca’s chin and stood abruptly. His dressing gown fell open, exposing a trail of hair that ran from his chest down to the waistband of his trousers. 

Robert dropped his eyes, sickened by the impropriety. It was like looking at the back of a golden idol and seeing that under the paint, the god was only made of wood. 

“Enjoy your night, Argent,” said Ademar, tossing the leash carelessly onto the bed. “Please don’t feel the need to hold back on my account. I have yet to find the boy’s breaking point, and he is so beautiful when he bleeds.”

He swept out of the room, leaving Robert and Luca frozen in his wake. 

It was Robert who moved first. He crossed the room and fell to his knees in front of Luca, unclipping the leash from his collar with fingers that shook with—rage? Fear? He couldn’t tell the difference anymore. 

Luca flinched at the contact. His face was as smooth and lifeless as a porcelain mask. Gods, did he even know who Robert was?

Robert had the answer to that question in the next moment, when Luca’s hand slid inside his robe. Even as he reached down to cup Robert’s cock, his expression didn’t change. It was like being touched by a sleepwalker, his body moving through a routine without any direction from his mind.

Robert caught Luca’s wrist and pulled his hand away. Gold paint flaked off under his thumb; below it, he felt the roughness of scar tissue. 

“No, sweetheart,” said Robert. “I don’t want that.”

Luca didn’t react. He was staring fixedly at the tented silk of Robert’s trousers. Fields of hell, his body always did betray him at the worst possible times.

“Can you look at me?” Robert asked, trying to keep his voice level.

Luca flicked his eyes up before dropping them, cringing as if he expected to be hit. Then he forced himself to look up again, trembling with the effort it took to hold Robert’s gaze.

“Do you know who I am?” Robert asked softly.

For a moment, Robert thought that Luca was going to shake his head. Then his hand shot out to grip the lapel of Robert’s robe.

“Robert,” Luca whispered.

The lord was Robert. Luca knew that. Did he know that? His mind was in so many pieces, it was hard to make sense of anything. Hard to make sense of himself, even. He couldn’t remember how his hand had ended up twisted in the lord’s robe. But his mouth wasn’t full of blood, so probably Robert hadn’t hit him yet. 

Only Robert never hit him. Did he? Luca couldn’t be sure. When he was floating in the mirror on the ceiling as the lord and his master spoke, he couldn’t tell them apart. He couldn’t tell which one he should be afraid of. 

“I don’t think it’s you,” said Luca. His voice was so cracked from disuse that it sounded like a stranger’s.

The lord frowned. Luca flinched. A reflex; he was used to that expression being followed by pain. But Robert didn’t hit him, and Luca was still touching him without permission, so maybe this was allowed. Maybe he wouldn’t have to take any more damage tonight.

“What do you mean, sweetheart?” Robert asked.

Luca tried to answer, but he couldn’t make his throat work. His master would think that was funny, a whore losing control of his throat. _What an excellent joke._ _How droll._

Luca swallowed around the constriction and tried again. 

“You’re not—you’re not the one I’m afraid of,” he said.

“You don’t ever have to be afraid of me, Luca,” Robert said quietly.

Hearing his name tore a sound out of Luca—wrecked, ugly, like a dying thing would make. 

“Please,” he gasped, “ _please,_ can you—”

“Anything.”

“My name. Please, can you just—my name, I can’t, I keep forgetting—”

“Your name is Luca,” said Robert. “ _Luca_. I’ll say it as many times as you need.”

Luca took a shuddering breath. He could feel some of the pieces coming back together, fitting at their shattered edges.

“I was born in Ost,” he said. “It’s by the sea. I don’t—I don’t want to forget that.”

Robert seemed to understand. He closed his hand over Luca’s, still tangled in the fabric of his robe. 

“What were your parents’ names?” he asked.

“Gethin and Ailsa. And—and I had brothers, I had two brothers. I think they might be alive still, they were always strong, so much stronger than me, and I—I’d feel it, wouldn’t I, if they died?”

“I’m sure they’re alive,” said Robert, stroking Luca’s wrist with his thumb. “What are their names?”

“Alek is the oldest, then Brannan, only we—we c-called him Bran.”

Robert took Luca’s face in his hands. 

“Luca of Ost, son of Gethin and Ailsa, brother of Alek and Bran,” he said. “Loyal friend, lover of books and chocolate biscuits. You are the bravest boy I’ve ever known, and I swear on my life that I will get you out of here.”

Luca tried to speak, but the words went wrong somewhere. He could only say _please_ . Robert pulled him into his arms and held him as Luca sobbed _please_ after _please_ into his chest. He stroked Luca’s hair and murmured his name over and over like a prayer, or a spell. As if it could bring Luca back.

Finally the sobbing subsided, leaving Luca sticky and ashamed. He’d soaked Robert’s beautiful robe with tears and snot. Lady, there really was no way for Luca to contain his filth, was there? It just spilled out of him, contaminating everything good, everything clean. 

“I’m sorry,” Luca whispered, his voice almost as weak and thin and stupid as he was. “I’m sorry, Robert, your robe. I ruined it.”

“Good news,” said Robert, “it’s the King’s robe. You can set it on fire if you like.”

Robert grinned at Luca, inviting him to share the joke. It was funny, wasn’t it, to think of destroying something that belonged to Luca’s master? _How droll._

“Can I—I can still ask questions?” Luca asked.

“Yes, of course,” said Robert. “You can ask as many questions as you like.”

“Thank you.” Luca turned over the mess in his mind, casting around for an anchor point. “How long have I been here?”

“It’ll be a year next month.”

“That’s all?” said Luca, startled. “I thought—years, I thought. Years and years.” Then, urgently, “Asher. Robert, _Asher,_ is he—”

“He’s fine, sweetheart. Fine and free and just as maddening as ever. Alfred—one of the footmen—is passing him off as his nephew.” Robert quirked a brow. “Asher shows as little talent for being a bootboy as he did for being a pleasure slave, but as Lord Argent’s grandson has taken an interest in him, Tolliver has been deprived of the pleasure of turning him out on his ear. No matter how many pairs of shoes he deliberately ruins.”

Luca wanted to laugh, but it caught in his throat. He could picture Asher so clearly. It was as if no time had passed at all. 

But that wasn’t right. It had been a year. A year of fucking doomed men on his master’s command, the taste of their fear like acid at the back of his throat.

Lady, the things Luca had done. Just that morning he’d warmed the King’s cock while an injured gladiator had his sliced-open stomach filled with hot coals and the lords took bets on how long it would take him to die. When the screams hit a toneless splitting note, the King began to fuck Luca’s mouth in earnest. Luca had swallowed his cum and kissed his feet and suppressed a sick little shiver of gratitude when the King decided not to make him suck off the dying man after all. 

_You’re too clever with your mouth, you see,_ the King explained. _I wouldn’t want you keeping the poor fellow alive._

Luca doubled over, breath coming too fast. He felt Robert’s hand on his back, so gentle it was agony. Luca wanted to scream at him. _Hit me, fuck me, spit on me, make me bleed._ Robert never treated Luca the way he deserved, and Luca didn’t _understand_. There was nothing whole in him, no part left untouched. Robert should despise him, but he was stroking the damp hair back from Luca’s temples and murmuring his name as if he still thought Luca was worth saving. 

“How can you touch me?” Luca blurted out. “I’m _filthy._ ”

Robert didn’t try to tell him that he wasn’t. If he had, Luca really might have screamed. Instead he gathered up Luca’s hair so that he could rub that sensitive spot on his nape.

“Would a bath help?” Robert asked.

A bath. The last time Luca had a bath was when he was first brought to Highcourt and cleaned under the imperious gaze of Aquila. There were showers in the seray, but usually Luca was so wrecked when the King was finished with him that the attendants just sprayed him down like the broken toy he was.

“Please,” said Luca, “please, a bath—a bath would be wonderful.”

Robert rose to his feet and scooped Luca up as if he weighed no more than a bundle of old clothes. Luca wrapped his arms around Robert’s neck and pressed his face into his shoulder. Robert’s clean smell, the strength in his arms, the care with which held Luca’s ruined body—Luca would bury these treasures so deeply that they could never be taken away.

Luca huddled on the floor of the bathroom while Robert filled the tub. As he hugged his knees and rocked back and forth, Robert had the disturbing thought that he looked like a child. A blank-eyed child wearing nipple rings and a harness. His arms were crossed over his chest, as though he was trying to hide the piercings. Of course; Robert remembered how much he hated them.

“Can I help you take those off?” Robert asked.

Luca nodded. His nipples were swollen from misuse, but he didn’t react at all when Robert unscrewed the rings and slipped them out. He lifted his arms so that Robert could remove the harness, then reached down to fumble with the waistcloth. His hands shook too badly to undo the tie. 

Gently, Robert helped Luca unwind the waistcloth from around his hips. He tried not to think about their last meeting at the Harlequin, how Luca’s cock had flushed and thickened as Robert sucked his nipples. _Not helpful_. 

Robert hesitated, then forced himself to ask, “Are you still wearing the—toy?”

Luca’s face crumpled. He nodded. 

Fuck, of course he was. Robert realized that Luca was sitting awkwardly, his weight resting on one cheek, and cursed himself for not noticing sooner. He’d only seen the base of the thing when Ademar showed it off, but it had looked substantial, and it’d been inside of Luca for hours now.

“Do you want to take it out?” Robert asked.

In a voice was so small and wretched that Robert almost couldn’t hear him, Luca whispered, “He said I wasn’t allowed.”

It didn’t make sense, and then it did. 

“He wanted me to be the one to do it,” said Robert.

Luca nodded miserably. 

“It was an order,” he whispered. “I can’t disobey an order, Robert, I _can’t_.”

“He’ll never know—”

But Luca shook his head, frantic. 

“He’ll know. He knows _everything_.”

Robert had a sudden image of the King holding Luca in the palm of his hand, tilting it this way and that to watch him scramble. This really was all just a game to him, wasn’t it? Hurting people, fucking them. Making them fuck each other. Gods, Robert should’ve killed Ademar when he had the chance. That might have been the one good thing he did in his useless life… 

A small sound of distress snapped Robert back to the moment. Luca was gazing at him wide-eyed. His hand hovered just above Robert’s, as though he wanted desperately to touch him but wasn’t sure if he would be allowed.

“You’re angry,” Luca whispered. “It’s my fault, I’m sorry—”

“I’m not angry at you,” said Robert firmly, intertwining his fingers with Luca’s. “None of this is your fault, sweetheart. Is it all right if I take the toy out?”

Luca looked so relieved that Robert felt even more like a monster for having left the damned thing in so long.

“Yes, please, Robert. Thank you.”

“Can you lean over the side of the tub?”

Luca obliged, bending over the tub with his cheek cushioned on his arm and his knees open. When Robert touched the inside of his leg, he spread wider, arching his back in a posture of invitation that sent a bolt of heat to Robert’s cock. Scald the land, but Luca was gorgeous,. There was a flushed line from his balls to his rim that Robert ached to trace with his tongue.

And damn Ademar to the blackest pit of hell for making this the first time Robert got to touch Luca like this. It was as simultaneously humiliating and desperately arousing as everything sexual always was between them. 

Robert kept himself grounded by watching Luca’s face as he worked the toy out. There was no enjoyment there, only misery.

And no wonder. The toy slid out, landing in Robert’s palm with a thud. Weighted _,_ then. The ridges along its length were definitely not designed for the comfort of the wearer. No wonder Luca’s hole was so red and swollen. (Robert told himself sternly that it would _not_ help if he kissed it better.) Before it could wink closed, a smear of white trickled out.

“He fucked you,” Robert said, rage rising hot in his throat. Gods, Luca was _raw_ , as if—“Did he even use lube?”

Luca shook his head. His expression had gone distant; when he spoke, it was in Ademar’s flat, cold voice. 

“ _A reminder of who owns you, whore,_ ” he mimicked. “ _It might be Argent’s cock inside of you, but you won’t be able to think of anyone but me. Isn’t it a marvelous joke?_ ” 

The impression was so eerily accurate that a chill ran down the back of Robert’s neck. He sat back on his heels, dizzy with hatred—most of it for Ademar, but Robert reserved a healthy portion for himself. All he’d ever wanted was to protect his boy, but what had he ever done for Luca? Gotten him sold to a fuckhouse and then gifted to a psychopath. Luca probably would’ve be better off if Robert had never crashed into his life in the first place.

Robert wanted to throw Ademar into the surface of the sun. He settled for throwing the plug. It hit the wall with a satisfying crack.

Luca startled violently at the noise. He was still bent over the tub with his legs spread, as if it hadn’t even occurred to him to close them without being told. 

“I’m s-sorry,” he said, a note of fear in his voice. “I wanted to tell you, but he said it had to be a surprise.”

No doubt that was another order that Luca couldn’t disobey. Robert swallowed down nausea and ran a reassuring hand down Luca’s back.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart,” he said. “Hell, he hurt you because of me. I’m the one who should be apologizing.”

A sound tore loose from Luca’s throat. Only belatedly did Robert realize it was a laugh. It didn’t sound even remotely sane. 

“My master doesn’t need an excuse to hurt me. He says I’m prettiest when I’m screaming.” Luca jerked his head to the side, as though trying to shake something loose. “Please, can I get in the water? I’m not clean.”

Of course Luca needed to wash that bastard out of him. Robert helped him climb into the tub, keeping his eyes chastely averted. 

The moment Luca touched the warm water, he made a muffled, wrenching noise. He huddled with his knees drawn up to his chest and his face buried in his arms, shivering so badly that it looked like he was having a seizure. Robert rubbed soothing circles on his back until the worst of it had subsided.

“I d-don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Luca managed to say through chattering teeth. “I d-don’t shake like this when h-he—when h-he—when I have a r-reason.”

Robert ran his hand up and down between the quivering wings of Luca’s shoulder blades. He wished that he could draw out every awful thing that had been done to him like poison from a wound.

“Sometimes it isn’t until you’re out of it that everything catches up with you,” Robert said. “When Harrow used to send me out on jobs, I was never nervous. Even during—I’d have my hands on a man’s throat, pressing the life out of him, and it was like I wasn’t in my body. Like I was floating on the ceiling, watching someone die.”

“That happens to me,” said Luca, straightening. “All the time. When it’s bad, or sometimes even when it’s not. I just sort of…go away.” His fingers caught in his hair, absently twisting a braid. “It was like that earlier, when he was here talking to you. I was in the mirror, watching. There are mirrors on his ceiling, too.”

Of course there were. _Profligate and depraved_ , Ademar’s Generals thought him? Gods, they didn’t know the half of it.

“It’s a way to survive, I think,” said Robert. “Leaving yourself.”

“What would happen after the job?” asked Luca, resting his cheek on his knees.

“All hell would break loose,” Robert admitted. “Like a dam splitting open. All those feelings I’d shoved down would just come rushing over my head. Then I’d go get dead drunk and find someone to bring home.” He smiled ruefully. “Gods know I’m not a paragon of healthy emotional management.”

“I don’t think I am either,” said Luca. He scooped up a handful of water and watched it run between his fingers. “But this is helping. He feels further away now.”

“Good.” Robert rubbed Luca’s neck, thinking. “You know, when Aunt Mina took me in, I hadn’t bathed in months. Smelled like a whorehouse gutter. She fairly wrestled me into the tub and scrubbed me ’til the water was black. I screamed like a cat, and I’d never admit it, but I felt—well, taken care of, I suppose.”

The ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of Luca’s mouth. 

“Robert, are you offering to help me wash?”

“Chose a roundabout way of doing it, didn’t I?” said Robert with a sheepish grin.

Luca answered that question by taking the soap from its crystal dish and pressing it into Robert’s hand. 

Then he caught sight of the incongruously cheerful rubber duck sitting next to the soapdish and stopped short.

“What in the Lady’s name—”

Robert plucked the rubber duck from its perch and put it in the water to float. Luca looked from the duck to Robert like he’d just seen a magic trick. Then he laughed—a true laugh, rich with astonishment and delight. Robert felt as though a stone had been lifted from his chest. 

He washed Luca gently, carefully, while he played with the duck. It seemed that every arabesque covered a livid bruise. A particularly nasty contusion covered his flank. Robert took it for a handmark at first—there were plenty of those elsewhere on his body—but there was a cluster of puncture wounds in the center of the bruise. It was as though he’d been bitten over and over again by a very small animal.

Luca was using his hand to make waves in the water so that the duck bobbed up and down. When he saw what Robert was looking at, he looked away. 

“The King’s doctor gives us shots to make us heal faster,” he said. “Big needles. They always bruise.”

“Must’ve hurt like a son of a bitch,” said Robert, trying to keep the rage from his voice. _Add the King’s doctor to the list of bastards I have to kill._

Luca shrugged. He’d discovered that the duck would right itself if flipped upside down. 

“One of the shots makes your heart go too fast,” he said. “A boy went into convulsions. He died, I think. Anyway, they started giving us all smaller doses after that.”

Robert gripped the side of the tub so hard it was a miracle the porcelain didn’t crack. 

“I might not be a medical man,” he said between clenched teeth, “but I don’t think the physician’s oath condones shooting people up with drugs that can kill them.”

“But we’re not people,” said Luca, brow furrowed with confusion. “We’re slaves.”

Robert took Luca’s face in his hands and said, as firmly as he dared, “Luca, you _are_ a person.”

There was more to that speech, but Luca was melting into Robert’s touch, his eyes fluttering shut, and Robert found himself curiously incapable of formulating a coherent thought. He didn’t know he kissed Luca or Luca kissed him, only that their lips met in the wet haze over the water.

It was Luca who sucked Robert’s tongue into his mouth and met it with his own. Robert’s hands came up to tangle in Luca’s hair, pulling him closer. Luca moaned. He clung to Robert, one hand on his bicep and the other splayed on his chest.

Robert was suddenly, acutely aware that for all the times he’d seen Luca naked, he’d never been this naked with Luca. There was nothing under his silk trousers; the robe had fallen down his arms when they started kissing. This was closer than they’d ever been to skin on skin.

It took all of Robert’s will to break the kiss, but he knew that they were fast approaching the point of no return. In a few moments there would be a wet mark on the front of his silk trousers. 

Robert sat back on his heels, eyes closed, bracing against the tub as he tried to catch his breath. _Gods_ , he was hard. His cock was on a hair trigger; a stiff breeze could probably tip him over the edge. When Luca brushed his wrist he hissed through his teeth, so oversensitized that the touch was almost painful.

“Give me a moment,” he said, half an octave higher than usual. “I’m trying not to make a mess of these stupid trousers.”

After several agonizing moments of visualizing what had, regrettably, become his usual erection-killing lineup—Tilney naked, Tolliver naked, _Argent_ naked—the urgent heat began to subside. 

Robert opened his eyes to see Luca with his cheek cushioned on his arm, watching him with the first real smile Robert had seen since their parting.

“You still want me,” Luca said, voice soft with wonder.

Robert stroked a lock of hair back from Luca’s forehead. Gods, he loved how curly his boy’s hair got when it was wet. Luca was almost unbearably lovely with his face framed by golden wisps. 

“Sweetheart, there is no possible world in which I don’t want you.”

“I thought maybe, with everything that’s happened—”

“What, that I’d go out and find a new love of my life?” That idea was so absurd that Robert almost laughed. “No, Luca. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.” 

Luca made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob. 

“Oh, I don’t mind.”

“Good,” said Robert, cupping his face. “Because I meant it when I said that I’d love you forever.”

“I told you that right before Crawley took me away.”

“Ah, but it was me who said it first,” Robert reminded him. “Right after I taught you the alphabet, remember? You learned the whole thing in three days flat, and I was so damned proud of you that I swore my undying devotion on the spot.”

Luca looked at Robert now exactly as he had then, disbelief mingled with hope so desperate it was almost pleading. Wanting so badly to believe that a man felt something for him that wouldn’t hurt.

“I remember,” said Luca softly. “I couldn’t believe that someone like you could love something like me.”

“Easy as breathing,” said Robert. 

No, easier. Even after everything, loving Luca was still the easiest thing Robert had ever done.

Luca took Robert’s hand and kissed his fingertips, his knuckles, the join of his wrist. He pressed his cheek to Robert’s palm.

“Robbie Blackpot, Robert Argent, I love you forever and a day.”

“Are you trying to one-up me?” said Robert with a quirk of his brow.

“Does that mean I won?” said Luca, bouncing on his heels.

“Call it a draw,” said Robert, laughing. “Come on, let’s get you dried off before you turn into a prune.”

Robert wrapped Luca in his robe and put him on the bed. He said, “Stay put,” before disappearing back into the bathroom. 

Luca stayed put. If Robert had put him in a burning building, Luca would have stayed put. He would have stayed put at the bottom of the sea. He wouldn’t even think to move.

Robert emerged a moment later, carrying a bottle and a wineglass. 

“This is a two hundred-year old Ermitage Domaine d’Sassar sangiovese,” he announced. “It’s the only bottle in Solas, and we’re going to share it.”

Luca didn’t understand what any of that meant, but he recognized the bottle as one of Baldassare’s, so it was definitely far too fine to waste on a slave. Still, Robert looked so pleased with himself as he pressed the glass into Luca’s hand that Luca couldn’t bring himself to refuse. He took a sip, trying to give the wine the proper appreciation.

“It tastes a little like those cherry candies you used to bring me,” he said hesitantly. “Is that right?”

“You’re tasting the limestone in the soil,” said Robert approvingly, leaning back against the bedpost. “I passed through this part of Ermin with Grandfather a few months ago. It’s all silver-green hills covered with vineyards, peasants going in and out of little butter-colored houses. At the right height you can see the whole Valle d’Ombria spread out like a map.”

As Robert spoke, the lamplight flickered over the planes of muscle in his arms and chest, the lean V of his stomach. A soft trail of hair ran under the waistband of his trousers. 

Luca’s mouth was dry. He took another sip of wine, trying not to follow that trail with his eyes.

“Do you like it?” asked Robert.

“I love it,” said Luca, though he didn’t know whether he was talking about the wine or something else.

“I wish we had some _petítze_ and cured sausage to pair it with. Big bowls of _dulcillo_ for dessert.” 

He grinned at Luca, arm tucked behind his head and legs carelessly open. He carried himself with such easy confidence, as if he’d never wanted to peel off his body like a soiled tunic.

“I can’t wait to bring you to Ermin,” Robert went on, oblivious to the tightness below Luca’s breastbone. “Get some sun in your skin. I was almost as dark as Alfred when we got back to Lyonesse. Grandfather said I looked like a laborer.”

Luca could imagine Robert sun-browned, his hair bleached ruddy. It was hot in Ermin; he would’ve unbuttoned his collar. Perhaps there had been a triangle of tanned skin on his chest.

Luca shook himself. He wasn’t sure which rule he was breaking exactly, but he was certain that thinking about Robert like this was not allowed.

“Would you really take me to other places?” Luca asked, looking into his glass to stop himself from staring like a greedy slut.

“Of course,” said Robert, frowning. “You didn’t think I planned to keep you locked away like Crawley and Ademar?”

Luca was so surprised that he forgot to keep his eyes down. 

“But that’s what masters are supposed to do with pleasure slaves. Like Melchior did with Ganymene.”

“I’m not a god, Luca,” said Robert tiredly. “And you won’t be my captive.”

Luca didn’t understand what that meant—all barbarians were captives, weren’t they?— but he knew when he’d been reprimanded. He dropped his eyes, hand going automatically to twist in his hair. 

“Yes, Robert.” He hesitated, then blurted out, “May I ask for something?”

“Anything, sweetheart.”

 _Anything._ Lady, the things Luca would ask for if he could…

No. _No._ Master Trainer was right; Luca had a perverse imagination, and he needed to get it under control. If Robert wanted to kiss him, to bite his neck and his nipples and stroke his thighs open the way he had at the Harlequin, then he would do it. Luca had no right to hope that Robert would touch him like that again, especially after what had happened last time. His body was a traitor. Even now, he couldn’t trust himself.

Instead, Luca said, “Thank you, Robert. Can I—is it all right if I put my head in your lap? Not if it would be uncomfortable,” he added quickly. “Only if you don’t mind.”

From Robert’s expression, it seemed this wasn’t the imposition he'd feared it would be.

“Gods, yes,” Robert breathed. “Wait, let me just put a pillow—” 

Robert grabbed one of the decorative cushions from the foot of the bed and put it between his crossed legs. 

“Right,” he said, giving a flourish. “All yours.”

Luca gave Robert the glass before easing himself down, careful not to put unwelcome pressure between Robert’s legs. Of course the pillow was necessary; he was stupid not to realize. Robert might be the kindest man Luca had ever known, but he was still a man, and Luca knew what he did to men. Master Commissioner had explained it to him. _Look what you’ve done_ , he’d said, guiding Luca’s hand to his erection. And then, when Luca started to cry, _Now, dearest, I wish I didn’t have to, but you know that you’ve given me no choice. Be a good boy and I won’t make it hurt any more than it has to._

It hurt terribly of course; it always did. But Luca had given him no choice. That was why Master Commissioner had to fuck him even though Luca was so little that he tore every time. Robert didn’t want to fuck him—if he had he would’ve taken Luca in the bath—but he would still react to having Luca’s head on his lap, his mouth so close that he could shove it down on his cock.

The thought of Robert using him that way made Luca’s mouth water. _Lady_ , he was disgusting. Sucking Robert’s cock was going on the list of things that he wasn’t allowed to think about.

“This is how we used to do vocabulary drills, remember?” said Robert, threading his fingers through Luca’s hair. “You learned so damn fast.”

Luca smiled up at him. From this angle, the lamplight gave his hair a reddish halo. He really did look like a god.

“You were a good teacher,” Luca said. “The best teacher.”

“Well, I had an excellent pupil.”

Unconsciously, Luca’s hand rose to touch the sharp line of Robert’s jaw. Responding to the plea that Luca wasn’t brave enough to voice, Robert leaned down and brushed their lips together. Luca had the dizzy thought that wine tasted even better like this.

Robert pulled back before Luca could deepen the kiss. There were high points of color on his cheeks. Luca knew that if he took the pillow away, he would see the beautiful line of Robert’s erection along his thigh. 

_I wish you’d let me touch you_ , Luca thought wistfully. _I wish…_

But he had no right to think like that. The wine was getting him muddled. Making him want things. 

Fortunately Robert seemed just as keen to change the topic. 

“I met with Hugo last week,” he said, leaning back against the bedpost. “My friend from University.”

“The one with the pamphlet.”

“That’s right! His absurd recruitment strategy. Which worked, I suppose, in a roundabout way.” 

As he spoke, Robert began stroking Luca’s hair again. Luca made a small noise of pleasure and pressed into his hand.

“Anyway, Hugo’s much closer to the center of things than I am,” Robert went on. “These days it’s him who gives my marching orders. And now—well, I can’t tell you much, I don’t want to put you in danger, but there’s a plan. In a manner of speaking, I’m being called to the front.”

Luca’s chest went tight. Careful to keep his voice even, he asked, “Will you be in danger?”

Robert hesitated before answering. In the dim light, the wine in his glass was dark as a storm tide. Luca remembered his mother saying that death came with the ebb of the sea and births with the flow. If only he knew whether the moon was waxing or waning, fat or dwindled to a sliver. Wolves didn’t care about such things, but Luca was suddenly, desperately superstitious.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” said Robert. “Just know that there’s a plan. It’ll happen here, in the palace, and it’ll happen soon. When it does, can you be ready to move quickly?”

Luca nodded. He could move quickly. During the satyr plays at the Harlequin, he could’ve easily evaded the Beast. If he really wanted to die, he could run from the King, and the only thing fast enough to catch him would be the bolt in his master’s crossbow.

“Good boy,” said Robert, and Luca didn’t bother to suppress his shiver of pleasure. “If it happens when you’re with the King, then you’ll need to get back to the seray. Find the guard who brought you to meet me last time. He’ll take care of you until I can come.”

“Yes, Robert. I won’t let you down, I swear.” 

“I know you won’t, sweetheart,” said Robert, tucking a damp curl behind Luca’s ear. “There’s nothing to worry about, anyway. The man Hugo and I work for, he knows what he’s doing. He’s like me; he always keeps his promises.”

But Robert’s smile was tight around the edges. As if he was trying to convince himself and not quite succeeding.

Luca hesitated. Then, wine making him bold, he said, “The man you work for. Is he the King’s astronomer?”

Robert bolted up so quickly and with a look of such alarm that Luca scrambled off his lap, heart hammering in his throat. He braced automatically for a blow.

“How did you know that?” Robert demanded.

“After we last saw each other, the guard took me to Mr. Kemp’s room. He didn’t touch me,” Luca added quickly, seeing Robert’s expression. “He talked to me—talked _to_ me, free people never do that—and he asked me questions, Robert, real ones. He looked at me like…” 

_Like a person,_ he wanted to say, but Robert was already gripping his glass so hard Luca was afraid it might shatter. 

Through gritted teeth, Robert said, “So all this time you’ve been passing him information?”

Luca hesitated. Robert was clearly furious with him. He'd done the wrong thing, just like he always did. _Worthless, brainless barbarian._

But he couldn’t lie, not to Robert. And he deserved Robert’s anger, didn’t he? He had made a _decision._ He hadn’t thought of it as a decision at the time, because of course Mr. Kemp hadn’t asked _._ Free people didn’t make requests of slaves; they gave orders. But looking back now, Luca saw that it was a decision he’d made that night in Mr. Kemp’s office—a decision he’d made himself, something no slave was ever allowed to do.

He deserved to be punished for that. Robert _should_ punish him. After all, the King had given permission. _I have yet to find the boy’s breaking point, and he is so beautiful when he bleeds…_

Luca only hoped that he wouldn’t bleed on Robert’s dressing gown. He’d gotten Robert dirty enough tonight. 

“I’ve been working for Mr. Kemp since the last time I saw you,” Luca confessed—and then he couldn’t stop. “I’m useful because the King always has me with him. I’m there when he meets with ambassadors or advisors or the war council, in case he gets bored and wants to—anyway, they don’t notice me, really. I hear things, and I see all sorts of documents. Nobody knows I can read, and even if they did, I’m nobody, I’m nothing, it’s like I’m not even there. And Mr. Kemp taught me about the cipher, so I can read coded messages—”

“You know how to decrypt military cipher?” Robert interrupted. 

“Oh, I’m not very good at it,” Luca assured him. “I have to memorize the message and then work on it in my head. It takes a long time. Hours and hours, or even days sometimes.”

“You don’t even use a paper and pen?”

Luca almost laughed before he realized that Robert was serious. Of course he didn’t use a paper and pen; what whore had access to writing materials? Even if he asked for them, the seray attendants weren’t allowed to give him anything sharp. Not after the King’s last favorite had slashed his wrists open with a letter-opener.

Luca didn’t realize that he’d said that last part aloud until Robert made a small noise of pain. _Stupid_ , thought Luca, furious with himself. Robert had enough on his mind without having to worry that some pathetic whore might slit his wrists.

“I’m sorry, Robert. I shouldn’t have—you didn’t need to know that.” 

Robert put his wineglass on the bedside table and pulled Luca into his arms. Luca had to fight a rush of heat as his body was pressed against Robert’s. He was thankful he had the robe, or his skin would be against Robert’s, the tight buds of his nipples rubbing Robert’s chest— _no._ Where had that thought even come from? Luca was _not_ allowed to think like that. 

“When Ademar dies, I hope to gods it’s painful,” said Robert feelingly. He kissed Luca’s temple. “You know how fucking brilliant you are, sweetheart? I doubt even Kemp could perform that level of decryption in his head.”

Luca shook his head against Robert’s shoulder. 

“Not brilliant,” he said, voice muffled. He turned so that his head was tucked under Robert’s chin. “It’s easy once you know the key. Anyway, I like being useful for something that’s not—well, what the King uses me for.”

Robert winced. Softly, he said, “I just hate that Kemp’s putting you in danger.”

“He’s putting you in danger, too,” Luca pointed out. “Much worse than me.”

Robert spread his fingers so that his signet ring caught the light. For a brief moment, Luca saw blood in the grooves of the crest. Then his vision cleared. 

_Robert isn’t the King,_ Luca told himself sternly. If Robert wanted to put his hand inside of Luca, he would take the ring off first. Luca was sure of it.

“I’ve got this, at least,” said Robert, curling his fingers into a loose fist. Luca knew he meant the ring and his knuckles both. “And Grandfather isn’t going to give me up easily now that I’m the proper little heir he always hoped for.”

“You call him Grandfather now.”

Robert shrugged, but his indifference belied by the jump of muscle in his jaw. 

“Yes, I suppose I do.”

“You’re better at being a lord than you thought you’d be,” Luca said without thinking.

Robert gave a humorless bark of laughter. 

“Point to you, Luca,” he said sourly. “You really do know lords better than we know ourselves.”

 _Well done, idiot,_ Luca thought, yanking his hair. He fought the urge to go to his knees. That would only make Robert angrier.

“I swear I wasn’t trying to score a point,” he said, biting back the _sir_ just in time. “You shouldn’t listen to me, Robert, I’m just a stupid slave. I don’t know anything.”

“No, damn it—I’m sorry, sweetheart, I shouldn’t have said that,” said Robert. He sounded so angry with himself that Luca half-expected him to start pulling at his own hair. “You’re right, I do hate how good I am at this. I’ve spent half my life despising the lords, and lo and behold, I fit right in.” 

Robert scrubbed his hand over his face. Then, from between his fingers, he asked, “D’you think I look like him?”

“Who?”

“Ademar.”

Luca was so shocked that he bolted up on his knees. 

“Lady, no! Everything he is, you’re the opposite. You couldn’t look like him if you tried.”

Robert smiled weakly. 

“Ah, but imagine me in a quilted dressing gown, demanding to be entertained.”

Luca narrowed his eyes, pretending to consider. Then he shook his head. 

“No, sorry. I just don’t see it. Lots of people have red hair, you know.”

That wasn’t true; they both knew how rare Robert’s coloring was. But for once Luca didn’t mind lying. And Robert didn’t need to know that Luca hadn’t been able to tell him and the King apart when he was in the mirror. That didn’t mean anything. It was just Luca being too fucked-out and stupid to make his tiny barbarian brain work right.

Robert yawned. For the first time, Luca saw that Robert’s eyes were sunk in shadows, his face pale with exhaustion.

“You’re tired,” said Luca. “I’ve been keeping you up.”

Robert gave a drowsy laugh and caught Luca’s hand in his. 

“I wanted to stay up. Fields of hell, this is the first time I’ve gotten to see you in nearly a year. I’m not going to waste it sleeping.”

Luca curled his fingers into Robert’s palm. 

“I wish we had more time.”

“Me too.” Robert stroked his thumb over Luca’s. “When do they usually come for you?”

“He’ll want me when he wakes up,” said Luca, suppressing a shudder. “Noon, maybe, but I never know what time it is here.”

“I can’t see Ademar rising before lunch.” Robert gazed ruefully around the bedroom. “My kingdom for an alarm clock.”

“It’s all right, I can wake you.”

“You won’t sleep?”

Luca hesitated, then decided it was better to be honest. He could never lie to Robert, anyway. 

“If you put me on the floor, maybe, but not in a bed. I’m not even supposed to be on furniture when I’m not being used. It isn’t allowed.”

“And I don’t suppose me giving you permission is going to ensure an untroubled sleep?” said Robert wistfully.

“I could try, Robert, I could try for you—”

“It’s all right, love. We can work on it when you’re mine.” Robert squeezed his hand. “I have grand plans to wake up next to you every morning.”

Luca’s breath caught. Robert was going to let Luca sleep in his bed. Not on the floor or a pallet, but in his _bed_ , like a real lover.

No, of course Luca wouldn’t be Robert’s lover. What a ridiculous idea. He would be a pet, and men liked to keep their pets close, didn’t they? Robert just wanted Luca in his bed for convenience. That must mean he planned to use Luca in the mornings. 

Luca let himself dwell for a moment on how wonderful that would be. Robert would never need an alarm clock again, not with Luca to wake him with his mouth. Luca remembered pressing his lips to the iron-hot outline of Robert’s cock through his breeches, breathing in the rich smell that made him wet at the back of his throat. That’s where Luca would take Robert someday. That deep and deeper, until his master came crying out Luca’s name…

Abruptly, Robert rolled onto his feet. For an awful moment, Luca thought that Robert had seen the filth in his mind. But no, he didn’t look angry.

“I have an idea,” Robert announced. “Here, help me strip these sheets.”

Luca scrambled off the bed. He watched with wide eyes as Robert pulled the sheets from the bed and tossed them on the floor.

“What are you doing?”

“Camping, after a fashion,” said Robert, throwing the pillows down. “It’ll be fun.”

“But Robert, _you_ shouldn’t be on the floor. It’s not proper.”

“Fuck propriety. I want to fall asleep with you in my arms. Besides, if the floor is good enough for you, then it’s good enough for me.”

Luca knew better than to argue with Robert’s strange ideas. 

“I suppose it is a royal floor,” he said doubtfully.

“That’s right!” said Robert, laughing. “Finest wood in all of Solas.”

He pulled Luca down onto the blankets and rolled him over onto his back. For one vertiginous moment Luca was in the mirror again, looking down at the red-haired man moving on top of him. Then he was in the fuckhouse with his legs chained wide, hallucinating that the man over him was Robert as a reeking dockworker fumbled to line up his cock. 

Luca bolted upright. The room was turning around him like a chandelier knocked on its axis. Reflexively, his hand shot out and grabbed Robert’s arm. Too hard; his fingers dug into Robert’s skin. But he couldn’t make himself loosen his grip. If he did, Robert might turn into someone else. He might disappear. He might never have existed at all.

Robert touched Luca’s hand. “Did I hurt you?”

Luca shook his head, hard. Of course not; Robert never hurt him, not even when he deserved it.

“No, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I just—for a second I didn’t know where I was.”

“You’re at Highcourt, sweetheart,” said Robert. “You’re with me.”

“And you’re real,” said Luca. “You’re really here.”

Robert took Luca’s hand and pressed it against his chest.

“Feels solid?”

“Yes.” Then, without thinking, he said, “It feels nice. Your chest—I like your chest.”

Robert actually _blushed_ , his cheeks darkening to match his hair. He was so handsome that Luca had to look away.

“Well, then, you should touch it as much as you like,” said Robert, voice slightly higher than usual.

The prospect of touching Robert as much as he liked made Luca feel lightheaded. _I’d never take my hands away…_

Robert lay back, one arm tucked behind his head and the other flung out in invitation. 

“You can put your head on my shoulder, if you want.”

Luca’s breath caught. They’d lain like this when they were children, but he’d never dared imagine that this level of familiarity would be allowed now that Robert was a lord. 

Carefully, ready to be shoved away at any moment, Luca pillowed his head on Robert’s shoulder. He hadn’t touched so much of Robert all at once in years. It was like lying against a furnace in winter. The warmth sank all the way down to Luca’s bones.

“Comfortable?” Robert asked drowsily. 

Luca nodded, his face buried against Robert’s neck. He felt Robert’s breath slow as he slid into sleep. 

Luca knew he wouldn’t join Robert there. He couldn’t sleep, not with a man so close. Not even if the man was Robert. 

But that was a good thing; Luca was glad of it. He’d seen Robert without a shirt on. He’d even gotten to touch Robert’s chest while they kissed (without even asking permission—Lady, he should be whipped), and that had been so wonderful, feeling the energy coiled there while Robert took his mouth. It was better than anything Luca ever thought he would be allowed. 

But Luca remembered their last appointment at the Harlequin, how he’d woken up that night with the blankets a mess. Whatever that was, he couldn’t let it happen again. If Robert found out—Luca didn’t want to think about it.

When he was sure that Robert wouldn’t wake, Luca slid his hand between their bodies and rested it on Robert’s chest. He was glad that he wouldn’t lose himself to sleep tonight. He had the rhythm of Robert’s heart under his palm, the weight of Robert against him, and he didn’t want to miss a moment.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains the torture and mutilation of a major character (Robert).
> 
> Allow me to take this opportunity to remind you that this story will have a happy ending.

Luca didn’t sleep, but he did drift, skimming just over the surface of consciousness. Still, he was keeping track of time. He knew that it couldn’t have been more than a couple of hours before the door was flung open and the room filled with people. 

The Steward stepped forward, flanked by a dozen members of the Royal Guard. He wore his usual expression of polite solicitude, but the corners of his mouth were tight.

Robert woke at once, fumbling blearily under his pillow for the knife that wasn’t there. Unthinking, Luca grabbed his hand. 

Robert blinked. Then, seeing the Steward, his expression sharpened, the traces of sleep leaving his eyes.

“If this is the way you greet the morning at Highcourt, then please don’t feel the need to cleave to tradition on my account,” said Robert drily.

 _He sounds so like a lord_ , Luca thought. 

In the next moment, he remembered: Robert _was_ a lord. A slave couldn’t be seen sharing a bed with him, even if the bed was only blankets on the floor. 

Luca dropped Robert’s hand and scrambled back, kneeling a respectful distance away. Robert made an abortive gesture. Then a shutter closed over his face. He was remembering, too.

“My lord’s presence is required in the Star Chamber,” said the Steward. “His Majesty’s command.”

Robert’s face twisted. Luca could tell that he was struggling not to retort. 

Instead he said, “Loathe as I am to refuse His Majesty, I can hardly present myself in last night’s clothes.”

“A suit was sent from Lightcliffe,” said the Steward, beckoning a footman forward. “If my lord permits, I will dress him.”

Luca’s breath caught. Something was wrong here. The Steward was far too high-ranked to dress anyone but the King.

If Robert was troubled by the breach in protocol, he didn’t show it. He stood, stretching shamelessly. The muscles in his back and arms rippled.

“I’ll have the boy dress me,” said Robert.

Before the Steward could reply, Robert took the parcel of clothes from the footman and offered it to Luca.

Luca was almost as adept at dressing lords as he was at undressing them. At the training house, Luca had been taught that he should worship his master’s body—and later, when touching Master Crawley or Master Boq, he could sometimes half-convince himself that the shiver of fear was a little like what he was supposed to feel. 

But it was different with Robert. Of course; everything was. Robert’s powerful shoulders, the crest of his hips, that ridge of muscle between his stomach and smallclothes—he stole Luca’s breath. Dressing him was like making reverence at an altar. 

And, as he tied Robert’s cravat, some perverse part of Luca’s mind whispered that perhaps someday he might be lucky enough to take Robert’s clothes _off._

As if hearing that thought, the Steward gave a polite cough. He said, “With the deepest respect, my lord, His Majesty is waiting.”

Robert’s hand closed over Luca’s, holding it fast at his throat. The onlookers wouldn’t notice any change in his expression; only Luca was close enough to see the flicker of anguish.

In the next moment it was gone. Robert stepped back, smoothing the black jacquard of his waistcoat. It took only a second longer than usual for Luca to fold himself to the floor, hands on his knees in case the lord—in case _Robert_ required anything else of him. 

“It was a very gratifying night,” said Robert. “I hope to enjoy you again someday.”

His tone was haughty, detached; he might’ve been any nobleman parting ways with a whore after a night of dissipation. 

Then Robert dropped to his knees—his _knees_ , as if Luca were the King—and caught Luca’s face in his hands. Their lips met—soft, desperate, not at all the rough, impersonal claiming that the Steward would expect. This was the way a man kissed a lover, not a slave.

 _That was a mistake,_ Luca thought dizzily.

“I’ll find you,” Robert murmured, low enough that only the two of them could hear. “Forever, remember? Forever and a day.”

When Robert rose, he was every inch a lord again. He swept after the Steward without looking back.

Aquila had been lurking in the hallway with a brace of attendants. Now he stepped forward and gave Luca the signal to stand.

“I see you’ve won another admirer,” said Aquila drily. “Why are the bedsheets on the floor?”

“That’s where my lord wanted to take his pleasure,” said Luca, widening his eyes in an expression of earnest stupidity.

“How singular,” Aquila sniffed. Then he saw Luca’s bare nipples and scowled. “You let him take out the rings?” 

Luca tried to cross his arms over his chest. Aquila slapped them away.

“My lord said the rings were ugly,” Luca muttered.

Aquila made an exasperated noise. 

“Get them. Now.”

The rings were in the bathroom along with the harness and waistcloth. The horrible, hated plug had rolled into a corner. Aquila hadn’t asked for it, so Luca wasn’t shirking orders when he left it there.

Aquila wasn’t in a gentle mood. He twisted Luca’s bruised nipples on purpose, wringing each nub white before stabbing the rings through. Once he’d finished, Aquila gave the rings a satisfied yank.

“There,” he said, smiling at Luca’s glazed expression. “That’s better.”

Aquila released him and stepped back. Luca resisted the urge to cover his chest again. 

Without thinking, Luca said, “If His Majesty is in chambers, will I be taken back to the seray?”

He knew at once he’d made a mistake. Aquila narrowed his eyes.

“Asking questions, are we? I see the night’s made you bold.”

Luca flushed and dropped his gaze. _Idiot._ Aquila could tell that something had changed, even if he didn’t know what.

“No, you won’t be taken to the seray,” Aquila went on after a moment. “In his magnanimity, His Majesty has seen fit to loan you to General Balkas. You’ll attend the General until His Majesty recalls you to Highcourt.”

Luca’s head jerked up. He searched Aquila’s face for some sign that he was joking, but his features were arranged in lines of cool impassivity.

“But—”

Aquila cracked his palm across Luca’s cheek before the word had even left his mouth.

“You have no opinions on how His Majesty chooses to dispose of you.”

“Yes, sir,” Luca whispered. “I’m sorry, sir. Thank you for correcting me.”

The words came automatically. Even to Luca’s ears they sounded hollow. 

The halls of Highcourt passed in a blur of red and gold. Robert registered three times as many Royal Guardsmen as usual. There were Watchmen, too, lurking vulturelike in the outer corridors. Their drab uniforms were a stark contrast to the luxury surrounding them. 

If Robert hadn’t already sensed an ill wind, that would’ve tipped him off. In this part of the palace, so close to the King, there should be no commoners at all except Guardsmen, dignitaries, and high-ranked servants. Certainly not coppers who looked like they’d been pulled off the street.

Something was very wrong.

 _Worse than that, my lad_ , Harrow corrected him. _Something is very wrong and you haven’t got a way out._

Guardsmen flanked Robert on all sides, in a pattern he recognized intimately as one designed to prevent escape. Even if he’d had a sword, he was surrounded. They would disarm him in a moment, and then—

Better not to think about what would happen then.

 _Patience_ , Harrow urged. _I trained you well, Robbie. When the moment comes, you’ll know_.

That didn’t mean Robert could stop his hands from curling into fists at his sides. Still, he tried to keep his gait light, untroubled. No reason to go to his doom shrinking like a schoolboy at the headmaster’s door.

When they arrived at the Star Chamber, Robert’s suspicions were confirmed. Rows of Councilors sat waiting in their formal dress, all with the bleary-eyed dishevelment of men who’d been dragged out of bed too early. A cluster of Privy Council dignitaries stood around the throne, where Ademar lounged in slippers and an ermine robe. 

Robert saw Grandfather in his customary position at the King’s right hand. His face was even more drawn than usual.

As Robert entered, the room fell silent. Every head turned to stare at him.

A man stepped forward. He wore a stiff blue uniform with medals of rank on the breast. Bartholomew Mara, Commander of the Watch. Robert recognized him from the caricatures scrawled on outhouse walls in Docktown. In person, his nose wasn’t nearly so big.

Mara turned to the King. For all his bearlike strength, he seemed uncertain.

“Your Majesty, if I may?”

Ademar waved a glittering hand with the same amused smile that he wore when watching his gladiators slaughter each other.

“By all means, Commander. Proceed.”

Commander Mara raised his hand. Watchmen emerged from the wings, all armed to the teeth.

“Robert Argent, I hereby strip you of all the rights and privileges pertaining to your rank and place you under arrest for high treason.”

Robert had the odd thought that the world was holding its breath. His eyes flicked to the Watchman closest to him. He wasn’t guarding his sword. It would only take a moment to—

“Robert!”

Grandfather’s voice rang through the Chamber. He’d stepped forward, weight resting painfully on his bad leg.

“Don’t,” he said. Then, quietly, “ _Please_.”

Robert had never seen this particular expression on Grandfather’s face before. It took him a moment to recognize it. Not disappointment, but defeat.

The Watchman took advantage of Robert’s hesitation to force him to his knees. Cold iron closed around his wrists. He heard the officious clink of cuffs snapping shut. 

Strange how slowly it all went. Robert had more than enough time to scan the ranks of Councilors watching his arrest, to note their expressions: disgust, approbation, gloating pleasure. He saw Piers sitting with Lord Ambrose, both wearing identical sneers. 

And there was Adrian. His handsome face was almost as haggard as Argent’s. He was trying to hide his shock and failing badly.

And wasn’t it strange to think that in a way, all of this was Adrian’s doing? If Adrian hadn’t brought Robert to the Harlequin that night, he would never have found Luca. He would never have made the deal with Kemp. He would never have found himself in a cellar under The Thorn with a dozen grim-faced men, listening to Hugo outline the plan for Ademar’s assassination.

There was a world in which Robert was one of the smug bastards watching with approval as a traitor was arrested on the Chamber floor.

“It was worth it,” said Robert. 

He didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until Ademar tilted his head to the side, a smile playing on his lips.

“Is that a confession, Argent?”

“My grandson is loyal to the Crown,” said Grandfather quickly. “This is all a terrible misunderstanding. He has confessed to nothing. _Nothing._ ”

“Not yet, perhaps,” said Ademar, letting the unspoken linger in the air.

Because Robert would confess. He’d heard the stories about the King’s interrogator; he knew as well as Ademar what would happen next. In the end, Robert would confess everything. By then it would be all that he could do.

It had been almost a year since Luca had stepped outside the palace, and far longer since he’d seen a shipyard. The tang of the sea in the air brought him back to Ost. The smell was sharper there, wilder, a brine so thick it was like breathing salt itself. When Aquila shoved Luca out of the carriage and onto the wet deck of the quay, his nose was seared not by salt, but iron—and, under that, the ferrous odor of gunpowder.

“Wipe that idiot expression from your face,” said Aquila, clambering heavily from the carriage. “I won’t let you greet your new master gaping like a carp.”

Luca realized that his mouth was hanging open. He snapped it closed and dropped his eyes before Aquila could cuff him for staring. 

Still, Luca couldn’t help sneaking glances as the guards escorted them to the General’s ship. There was just so _much!_ So much noise and activity, so many people. 

So many _soldiers_. The old dread twisted in Luca’s gut. The flash of red uniforms brought back memories he’d spent most of his life trying to forget. To make matters worse, the soldiers stopped and stared as they passed. The last thing Luca wanted was their eyes on him. It was almost as bad as when the King sized him up with the little half-smile that indicated he was about to get creative.

Luca quickened his pace so that he was right at Aquila’s heels. He’d never been grateful for the King’s brand before, but now it felt like a sigil of protection burned between his shoulder-blades. The same mark was emblazoned on the uniforms of the Royal Guards who flanked them on all sides. 

Luca was the King’s property. No one would touch him. No one would dare.

General Balkas’s ship was a dark hulking shape on the water. It made Luca think of the body of a whale tossed up from a deep tide. He wondered how something that heavy could float, especially with all the men scuttling across the deck.

As they approached, Luca heard shouting. The gangplank was cleared at once, men hastening out of their way. Aquila carried himself like a duchess, nose aloft, holding up the crisp white hem of his robe so that it didn’t drag in the muck. Luca scurried along in his wake.

The deck of the ship was slippery with oil and seawater. Luca was so focused on keeping his balance that he nearly missed how all the activity around them ceased abruptly. When he looked up, he saw General Balkas talking to a short man with a meticulously trimmed goatee. 

The goateed man caught sight of them. He grabbed General Balkas’s arm and pointed mutely. 

The General turned. Seeing the royal retinue, his eyes went wide.

“What in the name of all the gods…”

The Steward stepped forward, bowing. The red and gold of his robes of office flashed against the weatherworn colors of the ship.

“His Imperial Majesty commends the steadfast service of General Balkas and the Royal Regiment,” the Steward announced. “Along with his compliments, he sends the Golden Bird, the Jewel of Solas, to reward the General for his victory at Angarrick and warm his lonely bed.”

This was Luca’s cue to present himself. He stepped forward and knelt, extending his hands palm-up before sitting on his heels with his arms behind his back. 

General Balkas was gaping at him. _Like a carp,_ Luca thought before he could get his perverse imagination under control.

“What the—”

The goateed man stepped on General Balkas’s foot. The General coughed and switched tactics.

“Uh, His Majesty honors me with this—honor,” he said carefully. “I suppose that it might seem foolish to refuse, but—”

“Of course the General isn’t going to refuse His Majesty’s _very generous gift_ ,” said the goateed man, driving his elbow into the General’s stomach. “You’ll have to forgive him, Steward. He’s simply overwhelmed by the boy’s beauty. Isn’t that right, General?”

“Overwhelmed,” the General muttered. “Sure. Very, uh—generous.”

“I shall convey your gratitude to His Majesty,” said the Steward. Then, in undertone, he added, “In confidence, General, you should expect the boy to be recalled shortly. His Majesty’s desires are…changeable. It could be only a matter of weeks.”

“Well, that’s not so bad, is it?” said General Balkas to the goateed man. Seeing the man’s expression, the General went on hastily, “Uh, that is—of course I’ll be happy to send the boy back whenever His Majesty sends for him. Anytime. Really.”

Luca kept his face blank, but behind his back his fingernails were digging into his palms. General Balkas didn’t want him. Luca had served cruel masters and mad ones, but he’d never before had a master who didn’t want him. 

As the royal retinue made ready to depart, Luca felt Aquila’s hand fall on his hair.

“Well done, little barbarian,” he murmured, low enough that only Luca could hear. “You have the distinction of being the only favorite to leave Highcourt alive. Will His Majesty be so merciful when you return, I wonder?” 

He swept away, leaving that thought to work its way into Luca’s mind like a splinter. 

The moment the royal retinue was out of earshot, General Balkas bellowed, “ _Doran!_ ”

A broad-shouldered slave stepped forward. Clearly he’d been watching events unfold with no small amount of amusement. It was startling to see any expression at all on a slave’s face, let alone a cheerful one.

“Master?” said Doran, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

General Balkas waved a hand at Luca without looking at him.

“Just—do something with this.”

General Balkas stalked off before Doran could reply. The man with the goatee watched him go, shaking his head. 

“Only Hector would think to look a gift horse this fine in the mouth,” he said sourly. Then, to Doran, he said, “Just put the boy out of the way for now. Somewhere the men can’t get to him.” 

He gave Luca a lingering look before hurrying after the General. 

Doran was also looking at Luca, though with markedly less appreciation.

“You can get up, you know,” he said. 

Luca bit his lip. His new master hadn’t given him the signal to rise, but he supposed that Doran must be high-ranking enough to issue orders to other slaves. Luca stood, keeping his arms behind his back in case Doran wanted him to assume a more formal position.

“What’s your name, anyway?” Doran asked.

An easy question, clearly intended to test Luca’s obedience. He answered promptly.

“Whatever my master wishes to call me.”

Doran rolled his eyes.

“Oh, fields of hell. Forget I asked. Come on.”

Disconcerted—that was always the right answer, wasn’t it?—Luca followed Doran across the deck and down a splintery staircase. He stepped gingerly, mindful of his bare feet.

“Don’t you have boots? Or clothes? I don’t count what you’ve got on,” Doran added, eyeing the chained harness and waistcloth with distaste.

Luca shook his head. It’d been a decade at least since he’d worn real clothes, never mind shoes. He snuck a glance at Doran’s tunic and leggings and tried to imagine what it would feel like to be so covered up.

“Of course not,” Doran muttered. “Fields of buggered hell.”

Belowdecks, the ship boiled over with noise and activity. Luca had spent his childhood scrubbing down fishing boats, and Master Commissioner had brought him to Solas on a sleek private vessel, but he’d never been on a man-o’-war. It really was like being inside the belly of a whale. Aquila would’ve slapped Luca for gawking, but he couldn’t help it. His days at Highcourt consisted of stretches of mind-numbing boredom interspersed with episodes of sheer terror. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt anything so mundane as curiosity.

Luca was vaguely aware that his presence had the same effect on the sailors as it had the men they passed on the quay. But that was nothing new. Men had always stared at Luca. Now that he was sure the soldiers wouldn’t grab for him, their eyes were easier to ignore.

But Doran wasn’t so used to the attention. He seemed to take the wolf-whistles and obscene suggestions that were shouted after them as a personal offense.

“Oh, fuck off, you lot!” he bellowed. “I know for a fact you’ve work to be about—yes, you, Carnaby, Fergus, Graeme, _don’t think I don’t see you skiving!_ ”

Then, before Luca could wrap his mind around the fact that a slave had just shouted at free people—at _soldiers_ —without being punished, Doran turned to him and said, “I’m guessing you’ve been on a ship before, you being a barbarian and all.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Must’ve been a long journey from the Territories. You get seasick?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Badly?”

Luca had gotten seasick so badly that Master Commissioner had him locked in the privy and stopped bothering to feed him. By the time they made berth in Lyonesse, he was so dehydrated that he was hallucinating. It took a week before he was well enough for Master Commissioner to punish him.

“Yes, sir,” Luca admitted.

Doran cursed under his breath, eloquently and at some length. Luca listened with interest. He doubted that even Asher knew some of these oaths. Doran had a thick Midlander accent; even the most obscene profanities rolled off his tongue like music.

A freckled slave with ginger hair sticking up in all directions emerged from the chaos, carrying a jumble of bags under his arm.

“Dor, have you seen Master Toby’s bloody roll of practice sabers?” he demanded.

“He probably threw them off the bow when you weren’t looking,” said Doran. “Told you to keep both eyes on him.”

Doran realized that Luca had stopped in his tracks to watch a sailor drag a giant cannon like an iron dog on a chain. He made an aggrieved noise and yanked Luca forward.

“This is Connell,” Doran said to Luca. Then, to Connell, he said, “And _this_ is the King’s idea of a joke.”

“A joke,” said Connell slowly, blinking at Luca. “Right. Does the joke have a name?”

“Says it’s whatever his master wants to calls him,” said Doran sourly. “Very pretty manners, this one. His _feet,_ Con! Can we even find a pair of boots that small?”

“One of the cabin boys might have an old pair,” said Connell, falling into step beside them. “Where are you bringing him?”

“The brig.”

“The _brig?_ Why?”

“Because the master doesn’t want to deal with him and the brig’s got the only door on the ship with a reliable lock.”

“Oh _._ You don’t think the men would…?”

“Do you trust these good-for-nothings? Especially now they’ve gotten a look at him. Randy as satyrs, all of them, and he’s—well.”

“Yeah,” said Connell, eyeing Luca. “Brig’s the best place.”

The brig turned out to be a little room with a low ceiling and a cot in the corner. Luca had been worried that Doran planned to leave him here for the crew to use ( _Because you’re so worthless that your new master doesn’t even want you, hole_ ), but he was relieved to see that the door was siege-weight, reinforced with iron and several deadbolts. It would take a battering ram to break through.

“Right,” said Doran, pushing Luca into the brig. “That sweet-smelling hole in the corner? That’s the privy. You can kip on the ledge under the porthole. This is for you to puke in.” He handed Luca a bucket. “And here’s a waterskin and a pound of hardtack. Should last you two days at least. You’ll need to soften the tack up with water before you can eat it, otherwise you’ll break a tooth. Any questions?”

Luca hugged the bucket to his chest and shook his head.

“See you when we’re underway, then.”

The door clanked shut. Luca listened for the sound of the deadbolts sliding into place.

The porthole was only a little bigger than the span of Luca’s palm, set so high that he had to pull himself up on his elbows. Below, the quay frothed against the ship, small waves breaking into lace against its great wooden sides. From this angle, Luca couldn’t see the city. There was only water, stretching in every direction like a plain of endless light.

If Luca squinted, he could half-convince himself that he saw the shadow of a coast on the far horizon. But then his eyes adjusted and it was gone.

For all the horror stories Robert had heard about the basement at Bridesea, the room to which the guards dragged him was almost conspicuously bare. Stone walls, a low stone ceiling. A small fire was banked in the hearth. In the center of the room stood a table, its surface gray and splintered from being scrubbed with lye.

Robert’s wrists were uncuffed only to be chained to iron rings screwed into the tabletop. If he’d been shorter, the width of the rings would have forced him to bend with his chest to the table and his arms splayed wide. Instead he was pulled into an awkward half-crouch, elbows bent at an unnatural angle. Already he could feel the ache in his spine.

The guards took the torch when they departed, leaving Robert with only the fire for light. The metal edge of the table bit into his forearms. A little torture, easy to ignore.

The fire cast shadows on the drains cut into the floor. Did they really smell of old blood, or was that only fancy? 

Robert didn’t know how long he was left there in the gloom, wracked by cramps and the dark sendings of his imagination. He tried to empty his mind and exist in the present, untroubled by what the future might hold. When that didn’t work, he thought of Luca.

What if Robert really had run with him to Enkaare, as he’d once jokingly proposed? They would’ve awoken this morning in a tent instead of a palace, wrapped up in goatskins and each other. Robert could picture Luca’s smile, sweetly sleepy. There would be no hesitation when he reached for Robert, no fear in his eyes as he took hold of Robert’s cock. And he would let Robert touch him in turn—not like a master, but a lover. 

How would it be to have Luca at last, their bodies moving together with nothing between them but breath?

Robert scarcely had time to register that in the fantasy Luca was uncollared before he heard the sound of a key turning in a lock. Forgetting the manacles, he tried to turn. 

Iron bit into his wrists. A cascade of cramps rippled from his neck down the backs of his thighs. Robert cursed through his teeth, stamping his feet and twisting in his fetters.

“And where would the Grand Chancellor’s heir have learned such oaths as these, I wonder?”

The voice was mild, amused. Horribly familiar.

“Bors,” said Robert, closing his eyes.

He felt hands on his back and started violently. Bors clucked his tongue.

“You can tell so much about a man by how he reacts to touch,” Bors murmured, working his fingers into the knotted muscles. 

The pressure was deft, soothing. Against all logic, Robert felt himself relax.

“If you’re expecting a tip, you’ll have to uncuff me,” he said.

A laugh gusted over Robert’s ear. If not for the manacles, they might have been any two lords exchanging barbed pleasantries.

“Have you ever wondered why all the best pleasure slaves are trained in the art of massage?” asked Bors.

Robert went stiff. 

“Oh, now, you’ve undone all my work,” said Bors, digging his thumbs between Robert’s shoulder-blades. “Are pleasure slaves a sore subject for you? Interesting. Or perhaps you’ve simply never bothered to enjoy a whore’s other talents. You don’t strike me as a patient man, Robert.”

“That shows how little you know about me, Bertram.”

“Perhaps you’re right. I suppose that plotting His Majesty’s murder took a great deal of patience indeed.”

Robert cursed himself. He should’ve known better than to let Bors coax him onto quicksand.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Robert, trying to keep his voice even. “Like my grandfather said, this is all a terrible misunderstanding.”

“Oh, Robert, must the lies begin so soon?” Bors sighed, withdrawing his hands. “And here I thought we were getting along.”

Bors stepped around the table. He wore thick black robes and a hooded mask—the same, perhaps, that he’d worn when torturing a boy to death while Luca watched.

“What an incredibly effective disguise,” said Robert drily.

“Yes, I’m afraid you’ll have to forgive the melodrama,” said Bors with a sigh. “His Majesty insists. Where would we be without tradition?”

Robert heard the rustle of movement behind him. Again he forgot the manacles and tried to turn. But whatever Bors had done to his muscles had loosened them; he was able to swivel his head far enough to see a shadow detach itself from the wall. 

The satyr from Bacchanal. What had Luca called him? 

That’s right. The Beast.

“Oh, you mustn’t mind Egon,” said Bors mildly. “I own him, though in truth he’s more a colleague than a slave.”

Egon grinned. He carried a case inset with the royal crest. Its lacquered lid was careworn but carefully polished, like a well-loved box of toys.

“As you know, Robert, the identity of the King’s interrogator is a closely-guarded secret,” said Bors, snapping open the case. “You must be wondering why His Majesty sent you to me knowing that I would be recognized at once.”

Bors withdrew a tray of gleaming silver instruments. He picked up a pair of unsettlingly long pliers and held them to the light.

“When presented with the evidence of your guilt, the Privy Council agreed that it was incontrovertible,” he went on. “They voted unanimously to put you to the question. Would it surprise you to know that your grandfather abstained?”

“No,” said Robert hoarsely. “That wouldn’t surprise me at all.”

Bors lay down the pliers. His fingers hovered over the bank of instruments before selecting a thin curette.

“Are you interested in hearing the evidence?”

“Not especially,” said Robert through gritted teeth.

“Oh, but as a scholar of law, I think you’ll find it quite interesting,” said Bors. “Our office received sworn testimony from no less than five men that you were present at a meeting of Keneverites bent on assassinating the King.”

“Did the Privy Council vote on their torture as well?”

“They were commoners, Robert. The approval of the Council, Privy or General, was hardly necessary. As it happens, one of the traitors was a friend of yours,” he went on, picking up a hooked instrument with a wickedly curved tip. “He was the first to give you up, in fact. A squire’s son from the provinces. Rather a dashing fellow—or he used to be, anyway. Name of Forteys.”

“Never heard of him,” said Robert as the bottom of his stomach dissolved into a sucking void. _Oh, Hugo…_

“Is that so?” said Bors. “Strange. I have it on good authority that you were flatmates at University.”

“They sorted us alphabetically. I didn’t socialize.”

“Come now, Robert. Isn’t all this duplicity exhausting?”

“Go to hell.”

“And here I heard you were famed for wit. That’s hardly a rejoinder befitting your reputation.”

“Uncuff me and I’ll deliver the rejoinder you deserve.”

“Ah, that fire,” said Bors softly. “How I shall grieve when it dies.”

There was something in his tone that made Robert squirm. His eyes were at once bright and lifeless, like the surface of a mirror. Robert had to force himself to meet them. He wouldn’t be the first to look away.

“Now, I know you’re probably as eager to get started as I am, but first I must give you a sense of what’s to come,” Bors went on. “While every session is unique, and I don’t want us to feel bound by an arbitrary set of rules, there are some fundamentals.

“I am going to hurt you. How badly and for how long is entirely up to you. It’s important to remember that I am not simply torturing you for the sake of pain—though I _do_ enjoy this—but in order to achieve a set of goals. I would very much like for us to reach those goals together. However, the choice of whether our relationship will be one of allies or combatants is yours alone. Do bear in mind that I will enjoy your suffering regardless.”

He smiled.

“Now. Shall we begin?”

For all the show Bors had made of his instruments, it was a hammer and nail that he reached for. Egon held Robert’s right hand flat to the table while Bors balanced the nail between the straining tendons of his ring and middle fingers.

“I shall be terribly disappointed if you faint,” he said.

Robert didn’t faint. As Bors swung the hammer up, he had the curious sensation of lifting out of his body. 

Then the hammer came down. For an instant there was no pain, only the vibration of metal in his teeth. The vibration traveled down his throat, where a wave of bile rose to meet it. Robert doubled over, retching onto his boots.

“The nail isn’t in your hand more than a quarter-inch,” Bors observed, raising the hammer again. “Are you sure you can’t give me even one name?”

“Fuck you,” Robert rasped.

“What a pity,” Bors sighed, and brought the hammer down.

Robert felt it in his eyes. A blinding spear of white.

There was a question each time Bors swung the hammer, but Robert heard nothing over the sound of his screams. Otherwise he might have answered. 

Robert’s cheek scraped against the tabletop. His ears were throbbing with the blood that rushed in and out of his heart. He felt a distant twinge of regret that the stubborn thing was still beating. His body never did know when to quit.

“Still with us, Robert?”

Fingers tangled in Robert’s matted hair, dragging his head up. The room slid around him like wet paint. He blinked to clear his vision.

Bors stood by the fire, mask pushed up, mopping his face with a handkerchief. His fingers left red streaks on the white linen.

“Ah, there you are,” said Bors, tucking the handkerchief back into his waistcoat. “I had a little bet going with Egon about when your bladder would give out. I’m sure you’ll be delighted to know that I won.”

Robert registered his damp breeches. Strange that he could still feel shame. 

His eyes were drawn to his hand as if on hooks.

“Every time your grandfather makes a snide remark in future,” said Bors, “I shall think of the noises you made when the second nail went in.”

As he spoke, Bors pulled the mask back down. The material seemed to drink in light; his face was a black hole from which eyes glittered. More eyes, in Robert’s fractured vision, than any man ought to have.

“Ready for the next round?”

Robert’s groan was swallowed up by the sound of the door swinging open. This time he knew better than to turn. He didn’t have the strength anyway.

Ademar’s voice filled the room, abominably cheerful.

“Is that the delicate _odeur_ of piss I smell? I should commend you, Robert; most men in your position have shit themselves by now.”

Robert’s breath was coming very fast. His head slumped; Egon yanked it back up.

“Oh, dear, aren’t you in a state,” said Ademar mildly. “To think that just last night you were enjoying the spoils of victory. How the mighty have, etc.”

A servant materialized with a chair. He arranged a velvet cushion upon the seat before withdrawing. Robert felt the corners of his mouth twitch.

“Bertram and I discussed his approach extensively,” said Ademar, settling into the chair. “I advocated the rack; he wanted to flay you from the feet up. At last we agreed that the fate every swordsman dreads most is the loss of his hand.”

Robert heard himself speak as if from very far away.

“If you really wanted to make an impression, it should’ve been my cock you nailed to the table.”

 _Funny,_ he thought. _That fellow doesn’t sound broken at all_

Ademar tilted his head, as if he hadn’t quite caught that remark. Then he smiled.

“In time, Robert. In time.”

Bors stepped forward with a solicitous bow. He held the hammer like a lover.

“With Your Majesty’s permission?”

“By all means,” said Ademar. “I would never interrupt the master at work.”

“Let’s talk about Bartimaeus Kemp,” said Bors, uncurling Robert’s fingers from his ruined palm. 

“W-what ab-bout him?”

Bors clucked his tongue. He reached into the box and withdrew another nail.

“Fuck, no,” Robert blurted, unable to stop himself. “Gods, I don’t—I don’t know, he’s an astronomer, a don, he t-teaches at University—cryptology, which is like, like l-languages, I think, or c-code, or—we spoke at the Centenniel and he said I should t-take a class with him if Argent let me stay in school. That’s all I know, that’s all, that’s _all_.”

His voice tapered into a sob as Bors balanced the point of the nail on his twitching hand.

“So the last time you spoke with Kemp was when you sat with him at the Centennial?”

Robert closed his eyes.

“Yes.”

He didn’t need to see the arc of the hammer to know when it would strike. Feeling the air change, his entire body jerked—only to jerk again the next moment when the world failed to fragment into agony.

Robert opened his eyes to see Bors and Ademar watching him with twin expressions of amusement. Bors held the hammer lightly, swinging it back and forth over the nail like a metronome.

“Robert, I’m disappointed. I had hoped His Majesty’s presence might move you to greater candor. But perhaps the error is mine. I should have begun with an easier question.” Bors twisted the nail, just enough that its point dug into Robert’s skin. “Why don’t you tell me about The Thorn?” 

“The Thorn?” Robert licked his lips, trying to buy himself a little time. “It’s a c-coffeehouse. Boys go there. The sort of boys I like.”

“Oh? And what sort is that?”

“Delicate. Artistic. Emotionally unstable,” said Robert through his teeth. “I’m sure my friends could suggest a few more adjectives.”

“So you patronized a hotbed of sedition because you wanted to get your end away?” said Bors, politely unconvinced.

“I’ve patronized a lot worse to get my end away,” said Robert, and then groaned as Bors twisted the nail again.

“Let’s try this one more time,” said Bors. “Why did you meet Hugo Forteys last Thursday at The Thorn?”

Robert clenched his jaw and ground out, “We like coffee.”

This time when Bors swung the hammer, it hit. Robert’s body spasmed; his eyes rolled back. 

There was pain so unfathomable that it could be experienced only as a shape. A color. The absence of light.

Ademar’s voice was a crystalline spear piercing the void.

“I must admit, Bors, I’m rather disappointed. You’ve had young Argent for the better part of a day, yet it seems you’ve made little progress.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Majesty. Until just now, Robert denied knowing Forteys at all.”

Robert was panting raggedly, forehead pressed to the table. Hearing Hugo’s name, his breath stuttered. _Fuck._

This was how Bors would break him. By chipping away one piece at a time. Eventually, Robert would give up everything. Even the person who mattered most.

_Oh, sweetheart, why did you tell me that you worked for Kemp?_

“In that case, allow me to rescind my criticism,” said Ademar. 

Robert heard the clink of a glass. The aroma of sangiovese mingled with the bitter scent of blood. 

“Now. Ask him about the barbarian.”

Robert had thought that he was too far gone to feel fresh panic, but a cold hand closed over his lungs, squeezing the breath from him.

Fighting to keep his tone even, Robert said, “Last I ch-checked, there weren’t any b-barbarians on the social register.”

“My gladiator, Argent,” said Ademar with exaggerated patience. “The brute from Isar.”

Robert was swept through by a wave of giddy relief. He heard himself laugh, half-hysterical. 

“Oh, of course, _that_ barbarian. Why, I invited him round to Lightcliffe for high tea just last week. Marvelous conversationalist, if a bit limited in scope. There are only so many times one can hear about skulls cleaved open and guts ripped out before one feels compelled to change the subject—”

The hammer came down again, spiking the nail through Robert’s hand and into the table. By now the pain was familiar. Robert let it rip through him. Let himself scream—and go on screaming, even after the surge of agony crested and ebbed into hot black ripples.

The reminder of Luca was bracing. Sobering. Robert remembered what was important. He knew now what he needed to do.

Robert pushed himself up on his elbow. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. When he tried to speak, his voice was ravaged. He licked the blood away and tried again.

“Offer me a d-deal, Bors.”

Bors had the handkerchief out again; he was cleaning rinds of dried gore from under his fingernails.

“You’re hardly in a position to set terms, Robert,” he said mildly. “What sort of deal did you have in mind?”

“I’ll answer your q-questions if you answer m-mine.”

Bord laughed. He looked horribly sated, like a child who’d gorged himself on sweets.

“What could you possibly want to know?”

Robert smiled. He could feel the blood on his teeth.

“How many boys have you murdered in Docktown?”

Bors’s mouth went slack. The handkerchief fell from his hand and fluttered to the floor.

“Oh, now _this_ is interesting,” said Ademar, leaning forward. “Bertram, have you been naughty?”

“Who have you been talking to?” said Bors quietly.

“Now, now, that’s not what we agreed,” said Robert. “I’ll answer your questions when you answer mine, remember?”

Bors grabbed the poker from beside the fire and stirred up the coals.

“Egon, hold him,” he said without looking at Robert.

“Are you going to have him fuck me, too?” Robert taunted as the giant grabbed his right wrist and flattened his trembling fingers on the table. “We all know that you can’t rise to the occasion.”

The fire was crackling now, horribly cheerful. The flames illuminated the rack of iron brands that hung above the mantle. Robert recognized them; these were the brands the Watch used on lawbreakers too poor to pay the King’s fine. Half the men in Docktown had the criminal C burned into their hands.

The iron Bors selected had a stamp wrought in the shape of a T. 

_Traitor._

“Why, Bors, you seem upset. I thought you enjoyed your work. This is like sex for you, isn’t it? It’s the only sort of sex you’ll ever have.”

Bors pulled the iron from the coals. The stamp glowed luminously white. 

Robert felt drunk. Was this was hysteria?

“Remember, Bors, I’m not just torturing you for the sake of pain. I want us to reach our goals together. Of course, the choice of whether we’re friends or enemies is entirely up to you—”

The brand sank into Robert’s hand. 

Darkness rose to claim him. He met it gladly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is basically The Princess Bride trash and I'm not sorry about it. (I'm a little sorry about it.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not have words adequate to thank you all for your astonishingly generous, insightful comments. You keep me writing. I am going to try to respond to everyone by week's end -- please be patient with me. <3

Luca was being sick again. By now there was nothing left to be sick with except whatever sludge was left at the bottom of an emptied stomach. It burned coming up. His head was too heavy to hold; he rested it on the rim of the bucket. He wondered, not for the first time, whether a person could die from throwing up.

There was activity on the other side of the door. Luca ignored it. The men had started trying to get the lock open about five minutes after Connell and Doran left. By now, Luca was sure that it wasn’t going to give way.

Then the door swung open. Through blurred eyes, Luca made out the shape of Doran in the threshold.

“Fucking hell,” said Doran, sounding almost impressed. “You really are seasick.”

Luca tried to apologize, but all that came up was more sludge.

“And no bloody wonder,” Doran went on, grabbing the full waterskin. “Have you had anything to drink at all?”

Luca shook his head. He felt distant satisfaction at having forced himself to resist. It was a cruel trick of Doran’s to leave the waterskin in the first place, but Luca supposed that it was his responsibility to test the master’s new slaves.

But Doran didn’t seem pleased.

“Ah, Melita’s perfect tits on a pike!” he groaned. “I’m not having the King’s bloody favorite die of dehydration on my watch. You take a sip of this right now.”

“Not allowed,” Luca managed to rasp.

“Not allowed? What the fuck d’you mean, _not allowed?_ ”

Luca took a deep breath and pushed himself up on his elbow. The brig teetered around him like a wheel on a broken axis.

“My master,” he began, then had to swallow back a mouthful of acid. “Sir, my master h-hasn’t—he hasn’t yet g-given his slave the opportunity to earn water.”

Doran looked at him with disbelief shading into pity.

“You expect him to take you to bed, is that it? That’s how you plan to earn your water?”

Luca nodded, then winced as the movement sent the world spinning again. Of course Master Balkas was going to take Luca to bed. How else would he know whether or not Luca was worth keeping alive?

“I hate to break it to you, lad, but Master Balkas really isn’t interested in—ah, well, any of this,” said Doran, with a gesture that seemed to encompass Luca’s general existence. “He’s been telling that to anyone who’ll listen, as a matter of fact. Doesn’t want you, can’t get rid of you. Trust me, if you keep up your water strike until he changes his mind, they’ll be sending you back to Highcourt in a box.”

 _He doesn’t want you._ Of course. Luca had known that. But he hadn’t imagined that Master Balkas might hate his new slave enough to refuse to use it for its single purpose. 

_I’m going to die here_ , Luca thought, cold panic surging in his chest. If Master Balkas wasn’t going to bother with Luca himself, then there was no reason not to give him to the crew. It would be like the fuckhouse all over again, man after man until his worthless body broke apart and they threw what was left of him over the side to drown.

Only he was already drowning. Pressure ballooned in his lungs. Luca fell forward, choking. 

Doran’s big palm came thumping down on his back.

“Breathe, for fuck’s sake!”

Luca obeyed by reflex, sucking in a mouthful of air. His fingers were tangled in his hair, yanking out strands. He forced himself to loosen his grip. _Don’t hurt yourself, sweetheart._ That was a rule. One of Robert’s rules, which made it more important than all the others.

“Come on, lad, it’s not as bad as all that,” said Doran, sounding alarmed. “Look, you’ve got to drink, and I don’t fancy having to force you. The master really won’t care—oh, scald the land, I’m not going to _tell_ him,” he said, seeing the look on Luca’s face. “Have my oath on it, if you’re that worried.”

Luca hesitated, chewing his lip. It could be a trap. Then again, Doran was clearly high-ranked enough to give orders to other slaves. _You’ve got to drink_ , he’d said. That was an order, wasn’t it? Luca could be in worse trouble if he didn’t obey.

He’d scarcely made up his mind before the waterskin was in his hand and he was emptying it. Even the memory of chocolate wasn’t as sweet as the liquid that poured down his parched throat. He drank until there was nothing left to drink.

“You really were thirsty,” said Doran quietly. 

Luca wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

“I’m sorry, sir—”

“Ah, knock it off with that _sir_ shit,” said Doran, pushing himself up. “And you’re mad to apologize. Told you to drink, didn’t I?”

He reached down and pulled Luca to his feet.

“Come on, No-Name. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Luca was determined to make a better second impression on his new master. He scrubbed off the remains of his makeup and took his hair down, rebraiding it in a simple plait. Master Balkas was a soldier, battle-hardened; no wonder he had no patience for a painted whore. Perhaps seeing Luca like this, bare-faced and plain, might change his mind. Maybe he might find some use for Luca after all.

“I managed to scrounge up some clothes for you,” said Connell, handing Luca a neatly-folded pile. “No, don’t thank me. I’ll eat Dor’s socks if anything fits.”

It had been so long since Luca had worn clothes that it took him a couple of tries to get everything on right. He had to pretend that he was dressing a man after a session. The trousers were a lost cause; they slid off his hips no matter how tight he tied them. The tunic stayed on, at least, though the neck was cut so wide it kept slipping down on his shoulder. 

“Well, the tunic’s long enough that you don’t need trousers, anyway,” said Connell doubtfully. “Looks a bit like a dress, though, doesn’t it, Dor?”

“If I was a lass and I’d no other dress but that, I’d go naked,” said Doran. “Skinny little thing, aren’t you, No-Name? Don’t they feed slaves at Highcourt?”

Luca nodded.

“I’m not hungry much,” he said, biting back the _sir_ just in time.

“Well, that’ll thrill the master,” said Doran. “He won’t shut up about the expense of keeping you.”

“Oh, I won’t cost him much at all,” said Luca anxiously. “Really, I only eat a little, and I’ll work for it. I’ll work for everything, I swear.”

Doran and Connell exchanged glances. Luca couldn’t read the look that passed between them. Fear twisted in his gut like a knife.

Master Balkas’s quarters were nowhere near as well-appointed as Luca would have expected for a man of his rank. The doorframe was so low that Doran had to duck his shaggy head to clear it. Inside, Master Balkas and the goateed man sat on either end of a weatherbeaten desk. Official-looking documents were strewn between them. A trim man in spectacles and inkstained sleeve-garters leaned over Master Balkas’s shoulder, quietly reading aloud. 

On a ledge under the porthole, a boy about Luca’s age sat cross-legged with a book in his lap. Dark reddish hair hung over his eyes like a curtain. He was the only one who didn’t look up when Luca entered. 

Luca went at once to make obeisance, but Master Balkas threw up his hands.

“Oh, dear gods, not that whole show again,” he groaned. “Hodge, didn’t you tell me I’d like the look of him better in clothes? Well, here he stands, in clothes, and he still doesn’t look normal.”

“You can’t turn a silk purse into a sow’s ear, Hector,” said the goateed man. “Not that you should even try, mind. The King himself gives you the most celebrated whore on the Continent and you have him dressed in sackcloth, for gods’ sakes.”

“Slaves wear sackcloth,” said Master Balkas mulishly. “All that silk and finery he arrived in, a barbarian rigged out like a princess. It’s obscene.”

“Obscene’s the point, man! He’s a pleasure slave. Would you put a donkey’s bridle on a racehorse?”

“Racehorses are useful, at least,” Master Balkas muttered. To Luca, he said, “What’s your name, anyway, boy?”

Luca hadn’t been given explicit permission to speak, but Master Balkas clearly had no patience for protocol. He ran a dry tongue over his lips. “H-His Excellency should call his slave whatever he desires.”

“Well-trained, isn’t he?” said Hodge, approving.

“I can’t stand all these city airs and graces, Hodge, you know that,” snapped Master Balkas. “Boy, what did the King call you? And knock off the formality, we’re not at Highcourt.” 

“Yes, Master. His Majesty didn’t call me anything, Master,” said Luca. Then, summoning his bravery, he rushed on, “But, sir, if it pleases you, my master before His Majesty called me Luca.”

“What a stupid name,” said Master Balkas, at the same time as Hodge said, “Oh, that’s pretty, isn’t it?”

“Sir, if the boy’s name displeases you, simply change it,” said the man in the sleeve-garters. There was a note of impatience in his voice; he was clearly eager to return to whatever meeting Luca had interrupted.

“Hector, I forbid it,” said Hodge, slapping the table. “There was an opera singer with that name; I saw him perform at Wickmond Prior, and that same night I won a hundred crown at whist. It’s a well-omened name, and if you change it, the ship will sink.”

“Gods save me from pleasure slaves and superstitious soldiers,” Master Balkas groaned, scrubbing a calloused hand over his face. “Fine, you win. The boy can keep his name. Look, Luca, have you got any useful skills at all aside from whatever it is you do in the bedroom?”

This was Luca’s chance. He took a deep breath and said, “If it pleases you, Master, I can dance. I’m trained in massage, and I play the lute, and—”

A snort of laughter escaped from Doran. Connell elbowed him, but he was clearly struggling to keep from laughing himself. As for Master Balkas, he wasn’t even trying to hide his digust. 

Of course not; why would he? Luca was the King’s joke. Only jokes got old, didn’t they? Especially if they were never all that funny to begin with.

Luca spoke before he had time to think.

“I can read, sir.” 

The moment the words had left his mouth, he wished he could take them back. Expressions of amusement shifted into open disbelief.

“You can _read?_ ” Master Balkas roared. Before Luca could reply, Master Balkas turned to the boy with the book in his lap. “Toby, give him your book.”

The boy looked up, aggrieved. He had the same sort of broad, blunt-featured face as Doran. Smudged reading glasses slid down an upturned nose pocked with spots.

“But I’ve not finished it!” he said, outraged.

“Doran, take his book and give it to the boy,” said Master Balkas, without looking at either of them.

Doran snatched the book with obvious pleasure and handed it to Luca. Toby stuck out his tongue at him.

“Right,” said Master Balkas, folding his arms over his chest with a look of triumph. “You can read, can you? So read, then. Aloud.”

Luca hesitated. Master Balkas was clearly furious with him. He must’ve done something wrong. But what? Perhaps he should pretend not to be able to read after all. But then it would seem like he’d lied, and he _hadn’t_ lied.

(And, _oh_. A book. He was holding a book. It was almost as wonderful as finding himself in Robert’s arms again.)

So Luca read—stammering, his head ducked, expecting a blow to fall at any moment. This was a book like the ones that Robert used to give him; it was written for scholars. The subject was something called _fossils_. Before Luca could figure out what a fossil was, Master Balkas grabbed the book and shoved it at Hodge.

“Well?” he snapped. 

Hodge scanned the page. His eyebrows shot up; he gave a low whistle.

“Word for word,” he said. “And one of Toby’s books, too. Like watching a dog walk on two legs, eh?”

But Master Balkas didn’t look pleased. He turned back to Luca and demanded, “What else can you do?”

 _Nothing,_ Luca wanted to say. _Anything. Whatever you want, I’ll do it, just tell me, please._

But that answer would only make things worse. Instead Luca stammered, “If it p-pleases you, sir, I was trained in languages.”

“ _If it pleases me_ ,” Master Balkas mimicked. “What languages? Aside from that barbarian gobbledygook, I mean.” 

“I s-speak Erminian and Thessalonian, sir, and some Kharati, and Baktrian a little, and I can take orders in Enkaara and Torkén. But I’m not very good,” he added quickly, seeing Master Balkas scowl. “I barely get along, Master, truly, I—I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

But it was too late; Master Balkas’s face had already stormed over. He turned to the man in the sleeve-garters, who was looking back and forth between them with an expression of faint alarm.

“Tybalt?” said Master Balkas through gritted teeth.

Tybalt’s expression became one of faint apology.

“The great soldier wishes that I should test you in this language,” he said, in the most labored Erminian that Luca had ever heard. “I shall ask you of your homeland, for I know not what else to say.”

Speaking of Kel to a wolf was dangerous territory. Luca restricted his description to nature: the cliffs lifting their white heads over the sea, snake-billed cormorants darting in and out of breaking waves, and banks of cloud drifting between the hills like phantoms. 

By the time he’d finished, everyone was staring at him.

“Well, it’s safe to say he’s fluent,” said Tybalt in Solasan. Then, in Thessalonian even more stilted than his Erminian, he added, “Probably this also you speak good?”

Luca began the description again, this time in Thessalonian, but Balkas cut him off.

“All right, all right, you’ve made your point. Hodge, you were stationed in Agra Kampur, weren’t you? Try him in Kharati.”

Hodge’s Kharati was even worse than Tybalt’s Thessalonian. His Baktrian was so bad that it was nearly unintelligible.

“Oh, mercy,” Toby groaned, snapping his book shut. “Yes, he speaks Erminian, and Thessalonian, and Kharati, and Baktrian, and he speaks them all better than the rest of you.” To Luca, in perfect Kharati, he added, “You really are very good. Where did you learn?”

“What’d you say to him?” said Hodge, peeved.

“Aren’t you supposed to know?” Toby retorted.

“Sir, if it pleases you, I was taught languages at the training house,” said Luca quickly, in Baktrian, before Hodge could respond.

“Oh, so you were allowed to go to school?” said Toby eagerly, in flawless Thessalonian. Before Luca could correct him—of course no slave was allowed to go to school—Toby was already barreling on. “My mother wouldn’t let me. Because of my health, you know. But I had tutors, naturally. In Erminian, too, of course,” he said, switching languages, “and I daresay my Baktrian is better than yours—” he switched again— “but not by much. I’ve never been to Baktria. Have you?”

“No, sir,” said Luca, feeling dizzy. “I had a Baktrian master.” 

“I’ve never been _anywhere_ ,” sighed Toby, in Torkén so good he could’ve passed for a native. “Anyway, you mustn’t mind Balkas. He’s just jealous because he only speaks Solasan, like a peasant.”

Though it was clear from Master Balkas’s expression that he had no idea what they were saying, Luca rather thought he might’ve caught the gist of that last remark.

“That is _enough,_ ” Master Balkas bellowed. “Toby, you are not to speak to that boy in any language but Solasan. If your mother knew I’d let you speak to him at all, she’d have a fit. As for you,” he said, rounding on Luca, who cringed, “let me make myself perfectly clear. If it were up to me, you’d be back at Highcourt doing one of your dirty little dances with no clothes on. I don’t flatter myself that the King meant you as a gift,” he went on bitterly. “No doubt the whole Star Chamber is having a fine laugh at my expense. Balkas the Frigid. Balkas the Prude. Balkas the Celibate, stuck on a ship with the Golden Bird.”

“Oh, come on, Hector,” said Hodge, rolling his eyes. “You’re being paranoid.”

“You weren’t at that bloody dinner,” said Master Balkas gloomily. “You didn’t hear the Carlyles call me a eunuch.” He looked at Luca with something like hatred. “The King might’ve sent you as a prank, but until the happy day that he recalls you, you are nothing but a millstone around my neck. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master,” Luca whispered.

“Good. Doran, Connell, he’s to help you with your duties. I don’t care what use he’s put to so long as he’s out of my way and I can pack him off to Highcourt in the same condition he arrived. Understood?”

“Yes, Master,” Connell and Doran chorused. 

“Right. Now get him out of my sight.”

Luca’s sole consolation was that he managed to keep from throwing up until the door had closed behind them.

Connell and Doran were bunked in a storage room with the household luggage. The cluttered cabin was surprisingly cheerful. A box of shells decorated the table, and someone had tacked up a beautifully detailed sketch of a gannet in flight.

“You can have that corner,” said Doran, pointing. “I skived an extra pallet from the good-for-nothings. Speaking of which, we don’t want them grabbing you, so you’ll be staying in here ’til we make berth in Hythe.”

“Not that they _would_ grab you,” said Connell, elbowing Doran. “The men respect Master Balkas. We just—well, we don’t want to give them the opportunity, that’s all.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Luca fervently. He didn’t want to give soldiers the opportunity to grab him, either.

“What’d I tell you about _sir?_ ” said Doran, irritated. “We don’t outrank you, Palace Boy. If anything, it’s the other way around.”

Luca was sure that wasn’t true. Master Balkas clearly valued Doran and Connell far more than Luca. Besides, he was a barbarian. Everyone outranked him.

“I’m sorry,” said Luca, swallowing the _sir._ “Please, if it isn’t too much trouble, may I ask a question?”

“Funny way to go about it,” said Doran, “asking if you can ask. Sort of like that snake that eats its own tail, eh? The, uh, obororus.”

 _Ouroboros,_ Luca corrected mentally, twisting his hands together behind his back. Was he in trouble? Perhaps he ought to have made the request on his knees, as he would have with Aquila if Aquila was in a mood, but Doran seemed to dislike formality as much as Master Balkas. Did slaves from the Midlands follow different protocol? Luca didn’t know. He didn’t know _anything_. It was like the first week with Master Commissioner all over again, making mistake after mistake, only here everyone thought he was so useless that they weren’t even bothering to punish him.

Luca wished they would. He would rather take a whipping than stumble around in the dark like this, waiting for the first blow to fall.

“Of course you can ask a question,” said Connell, giving Doran a look. “And you don’t need to get permission next time.”

“Thank you, s—thank you,” said Luca, grateful for the direction. “You said we were making berth in Hythe?”

“It’s a shitty little scrap of nowhere on the coast,” said Doran. “Just about the only beach this side of Solas you could land a rotten great tramp like the Makepeace and not have news reach Castle Guye by sunup.” Then, frowning, he said, “You do know where we’re headed, don’t you?”

Luca shook his head.

“Oh, Melita’s tits,” Doran groaned. He grabbed a handful of shells from the box and tossed them down on the table. “Right. This blue shell, that’s our company. The ship lets us off here, in Hythe, then sails all the way ’round the tippity-tip of the Continent to Breakwater. As for us, we’ve got the joy of booting our way inland ’til we get to the garrison at Redditch. It’ll be about two weeks’ journey if we make good time, which we won’t, so count on a month. Got it?”

Luca nodded, filing this information away. Mr. Kemp might not have known that the King was going to give Luca to Master Balkas, but he had eyes and ears all over Solas. Luca didn’t doubt that he would be assigned a new handler soon. He had to prove that he was still useful—more useful, even, now that he wasn’t distracted by the King.

It’d been two days since Luca had been fucked. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone this long without taking cock. The thought made his chest go tight with panic. At the same time, a curious lightness filled him—as if he could shed his body and take to the air, like the gannet in the picture.

“Settling in, are we?” said Hodge, appearing in the doorway.

“Yeah, thanks,” said Doran, angling his bulk to block Hodge from the room. “Does the General need something, sir?”

Hodge leaned against the doorframe and smiled pleasantly. He and Doran were almost nose to nose—or they would have been, had Hodge not been half a head shorter.

“Lord Tobias has lost one of his red vassals,” he said, addressing Connell over Doran’s shoulder. “I’ve been sent to fetch you. Apparently it’s an emergency.”

From down the hallway came clatter of overturning furniture. Luca heard Toby shouting.

“Oh, for gods’ sakes,” said Connell under his breath, hurrying down the hallway. “All right, all right, I’m coming! _Don’t_ throw anything else out the porthole!”

Hodge listened to him round the corner before turning his placid half-smile on Doran.

“There’s also the matter of Lord Tobias’s practice sabers,” he said.

“Look, sir, the master told Toby that he needed to start keeping better track of his own things,” Doran began defensively.

Hodge held up a hand. “A little bird told me that Cook found a swordroll in the larder. I won’t ask how it got there.”

“ _Right_ ,” said Doran, and went charging out of the room. Luca heard his boots thundering down the stairs. 

The moment the noise had faded, Hodge turned to Luca. His smile sharpened. He pushed himself off the doorframe and into the room, kicking the door shut behind him. He might not have been tall, but his strides were long; it took only three steps to swallow the distance between them. 

“What beautiful hair you have,” said Hodge, wrapping the end of Luca’s braid around his finger. “I suppose the King had you keep it long.”

Luca went still. His breath was coming very fast. This close, he could see the broken veins around Hodge’s nose. He could count the grizzled hairs in his goatee.

“I’m the General’s aide-de-camp,” Hodge went on, winding Luca’s braid around and around his palm like a fishing line. “We’ve known each other since we were boys at school. I daresay there’s not a man alive who he trusts more than me.”

Hodge pulled Luca’s braid to force him to tilt his face up.

“The King must be as mad as they say to deprive himself of you,” Hodge murmured. “And Hector seems equally determined to squander the opportunity. How fortunate for me.”

His mouth closed on Luca’s. Luca responded automatically, opening so Hodge could plunge a sour tongue down his throat. Hands slid under his tunic, groping up his thighs to his ass. Hodge’s fingers fit perfectly in the bruises already printed in Luca’s skin. When he squeezed, Luca felt the ghost of the King’s hands.

As soon as the kiss began, it was over. Hodge released Luca and pivoted smoothly away. In the next moment, the door opened; Connell entered to see Hodge examining the illustration of the gannet.

“Your little scribbles have really come along, Connell,” said Hodge. “I must tell Hector to buy you a proper notebook the next time we pass through civilization.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Connell stiffly. 

“Supper is to be served at six o’clock sharp,” said Hodge, heading for the door. “Hector brought back a bottle of some Erminian swill from Highcourt. See you let it air before serving; I doubt it’ll be worth drinking otherwise.”

He didn’t bother to wait for Connell’s reply before letting the door swing shut after him.

“Well, that’s Hodge,” said Connell, turning to Luca. “I’m sure you’ll be relieved to know that Master Toby’s red vassal was in the pocket of his spare waistcoat, along with half a biscuit and a dead mouse that he was, I quote, ‘saving to autopsy.’” He paused. “You all right?”

Luca nodded quickly. 

“Still seasick, eh?” said Connell sympathetically. “I’ve a tea for that. Here, take a load off while I put the water on.”

Luca hesitated—Connell was pointing to one of the stools at the table, which Luca was fairly sure counted as furniture. But he supposed this was only slaves’ furniture; it must be all right to use.

Still, it was strange to sit with his legs dangling instead of curled on the floor. Luca experimented with pulling a knee up to his chest and curling his other leg under him. Better.

When Connell turned to see Luca sitting like that, he laughed.

“You look like my mother’s cat,” he began. 

Then broke off, frowning. Luca saw why at once; his tunic had slipped down his leg, revealing livid fingermarks on the insides of his thighs. He yanked the hem back up, cursing his carelessness.

“I heal fast,” he assured Connell. “I know the bruises are ugly, but they’ll be gone soon, I promise.”

Connell was about to say something, then changed his mind. Instead, he said, “I’ve got a salve that’ll help.”

The salve had the same scent as what the doctor had given Luca at the Harlequin, and it worked just as well. The moment Connell rubbed the greenish jelly into Luca’s skin, he felt a marvelous healing cool. It sank down to his bones, unclenching places he hadn’t realized were snared tight. 

Luca took deep hot draughts of tea and let himself go loose under Connell’s gentle, undemanding touch. It was easy to pretend that he posed as little threat as Bagoas.

Too easy. Luca couldn’t forget what Master Balkas had said. _I don’t care what use he’s put to_. That meant Connell and Doran could do whatever they wanted to Luca, so long as there was enough of him left over to send back to Highcourt. 

At least Connell didn’t seem eager to try Luca out right away. He was clucking his tongue over a particularly deep bruise around his arm.

“They must’ve been damned rough with you at the palace to leave marks like this,” said Connell. “And here Dor and I thought pleasure slaves just lounged around all day on silk cushions.”

Luca wondered what Connell and Doran would make of the seray. Of the pleasure slaves caged inside like birds so broken they no longer dreamed of the sky.

“You said I could ask questions?” said Luca, tearing his mind away from Nahab.

“You don’t have to keep asking permission,” said Connell, with a note of irritation. “And _don’t_ apologize,” he added, seeing that Luca was about to. “What’s the question?”

“When Mr. Hodge came to fetch you, he called Master Toby Lord Tobias?”

“Lord Tobias Cornelius Roland Barnaby Mitchum Stanheathe Carlyle, if you want the whole mouthful,” said Connell.

Luca started. “He’s a _Carlyle?_ ”

“Oh, right, of course you’d know Master Edmund and Master Rafe from Highcourt,” said Connell, mouth twisting at the corners. “Yeah, Master Toby’s the youngest.”

Now that Luca knew they were brothers, he could see the resemblance. Toby was built along the same broad lines as Lord Rafe and Lord Edmund, only with fat where they had muscle. But his hair was darker than theirs, not the true red of King Roland, and his eyes were deep brown, not pale green. More than that; he carried himself awkwardly, artlessly, with none of his brothers’ brash swagger. Luca had never known a lord who acted so little like one—except Robert, and, _Lady,_ even the thought of him ached.

To distract himself, Luca said, “I didn’t know Lord Edmund and Lord Rafe had a brother.”

“No, most people don’t,” said Connell. “The family doesn’t exactly advertise him. Master Toby’s clever as anything, but he’s always been a bit, well…peculiar. Lady Amelia thought it was best to have him educated at home. She’d’ve kept him home, too, but it was the Duke’s dying wish that Master Toby squire for Balkas. Not that he does much squiring, mind you,” he added ruefully. “Losing his swords is the least of it.” Connell sighed. “Sometimes I wonder what would’ve happened if Toby had been allowed go to to school. If he’d had the opportunity to make friends with normal boys, boys his own age…”

Connell seemed lost in thought for a moment. Then he shook his head as if to clear it. 

“Here, mind if I, uh, move your tunic down?” he asked. “You’ve got bruises all down your back.”

How strange for a man to ask Luca’s permission before undressing him! Even when pushing the neck of Luca’s tunic over his shoulder, Connell was careful not to expose more skin than necessary. Surely it would be easier if he just pulled the tunic off? 

But maybe Luca’s body reminded Connell too much of Highcourt. From the way he and Doran spoke of Lyonesse, Luca got the impression that they had as little patience for courtly affairs as Master Balkas.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” said Connell suddenly.

Luca looked up in surprise. No one had ever told him that before. Indeed, when he was younger he’d been punished often for talking too much. _A boy like you exists to be looked at, not listened to_ , Master Commissioner used to say. And that must be true, because at the training house Luca had been beaten if he even looked like he was about to speak without a direct command.

“Is there something that you’d like me to say?” Luca asked cautiously. 

“No, I didn’t mean that, it’s just—” Connell broke off, making a noise of frustration. “Look, Dor said you weren’t going to drink ’til the master gave you permission. Is that how it is for slaves in Lyonesse?”

Luca nodded. He didn’t want to think what would’ve happened if he’d stolen water before Master Crawley or Master Boq had fucked him. The punishment would’ve been terrible.

“Well, it’s not like that in Chesten,” said Connell. “Or here, for that matter. You haven’t eaten since you came on the ship, have you?”

Luca hesitated. Connell sounded angry, but he didn’t know why. Perhaps there had been some test that Luca had failed.

“No,” he admitted—and then, when Connell frowned, he rushed on, “but I’ve been throwing up so much it would’ve been a waste to feed me, even if the master had given permission. And I’m not hungry. And besides, I know I haven’t earned it. I don’t—” He swallowed around the sudden tightness in his throat. “I don’t know how to earn it. But if you tell me, sir, I’ll do anything. Whatever use you want to put me to. Like the master said.”

There was an excruciating silence. Luca kept his eyes fixed on his hands twisting in his lap, too afraid to look at Connell. What if he’d had gotten it wrong again? Connell was so kind. Perhaps he hadn’t understood what the master meant. 

But Luca understood. He’d understood perfectly. He was only good for one thing. What else would Connell and Doran use him for, if not for that?

_Nothing, hole. You’re good for nothing else._

“Luca—” Connell began.

The door opened and Doran came blustering through.

“Do either of you have any idea how many rats live in that larder? Cheeky fuckers, too. I swear they didn’t even scatter, just stared me down like I owed them money.”

He dumped the swordroll on the table. The thump made the shells jump and click together like fingernails.

“All right, Con, we’ve got to get ready for supper,” said Doran, stretching. “Hodge just caught me in the hall and made idiot noises about the wine. As for you, Fancy Feet, you’re spared serving duty on account of the master can only stand to look at you once a day, and he’s met his quota.”

It had been so long since Luca cried that for a moment when he felt the prickle in his nose and eyes, he didn’t know what was happening. Fortunately he managed to scrub a hand over his face before Doran noticed.

 _Stupid,_ Luca told himself. Slaves changed hands all the time. They were sold, or borrowed, or loaned out as a favor. He’d adapted to new masters before. Lady, he’d adapted to the King, hadn’t he? And Master Balkas was better than the King, a thousand times better. He’d been more patient with Luca than Luca deserved. Of course Master Balkas didn’t want to look at him. Luca didn’t want to look at himself. There was nothing worth seeing. He might as well be a hole in space.

A biscuit tin clattered onto the table. Luca jumped, and jumped again when Connell thrust a biscuit at him.

“You eat that,” said Connell. “The whole thing. And if you’re still hungry, you’re to have another. And then you’re to sleep, because your body can’t heal if it doesn’t rest. Take that as an order if you like. All right?”

“Yes, s—yes,” said Luca, taking the biscuit with a hand that only shook a little. “Thank you.”

And then, because Connell was still watching him, he took a bite. It was an effort to work his teeth through the hard-baked sweetmeal, but once he had, the bite dissolved into crumbs on his tongue. The taste was thick, malty, like the _søtkjek_ his mother used to bake.

“Oh, that’s good,” said Luca, surprised.

“Well, you’ve got to be the first man alive to enjoy one of Cook’s toothbreakers,” said Doran with a snort. “Connell, if you’re finished?”

Connell jabbed his finger at Luca and then at the biscuit tin.

“ _Eat,_ ” he said.

Connell and Doran left, with Doran throwing Connell a bemused look over his shoulder. Luca listened for the _snick_ of the lock before breaking the biscuit in half and hiding the uneaten portion in the seam of his pallet. Just because Connell and Doran were being generous now, that didn’t mean they would go on feeding him. 

_I order you to keep yourself alive_ , Robert had said. And Luca would.

Luca didn’t expect to sleep, but the moment he curled up on the pallet he sank at once into a dreamless fog. He was startled awake hours later by the door swinging open and Connell and Doran stumbling in. 

“Sh, sh, don’t wake him,” Connell hissed. 

“Right, right,” Doran muttered. “Mustn’t wake the baby.”

A boozy slur rounded their vowels. They both had the sweaty, goatish smell of too much drink. Dread bloomed cold in Luca’s chest. He forced himself to lay limp on the pallet, eyes closed, keeping his breath slow and even. Maybe the men wouldn’t bother with him if they thought he was asleep.

“I can’t believe we finished the entire bottle,” Connell groaned, groping along the wall to his pallet and throwing himself down. “Wasn’t a normal bottle, either. Was too big. They must be mad in Ermin to make bottles that big. D’you think they’re all potted all the time over there?”

“Definitely,” said Doran, rolling onto his back. “I’d be potted all the time if the wine was that good in Chesten. And Balkas was the mad one, telling us to pour the bottle out in the first place. Wasteful bastard. We did him a favor, drinking it instead.”

“Doubt he’d see if that way.”

“What the master doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“Don’t quote my mother at me. It’s too late. Or too early. What time is it, anyway?”

“Half past the bedtime of all good creatures, as your mother would say. Thank gods the lad’s a sound sleeper.”

“Yeah.” Connell yawned. Then, quietly, he said, “Did you see his wrists?”

“I wasn’t looking at his wrists, if I’m honest. Why?”

“He’s got scars. Bad ones. Like he tried to slit them open.”

“Oh, fields of buggered hell. Are they fresh, the scars?”

“No, years old. And that’s another thing—how old d’you think he is?”

“Dunno. Can’t tell if he’s young or just undersized. I mean, he doesn’t look any older than Toby, but then his eyes…”

“Yeah.” Connell exhaled heavily. “Poor lad.”

“You, Connell, have got a heart too big for the rest of you,” said Doran. “And you might spare some of your sympathy for the pair of us. We’re the ones that’ve got to keep the men off him and the master from throwing him overboard—and keep him alive while we’re at it, since he doesn’t have the sense he was born with. Fucking hell, it’s going to be a long march to Redditch.”

“He’s got to have more sense than he seems,” said Connell, “speaking all those languages.”

“Crows can talk, Con,” said Doran. Then he barked a laugh. “But wasn’t it a holiday to watch Balkas’s face turn colors when he found out the King’s whore could read?”

“Ah, that’s a memory I’ll save for a rainy day,” Connell sighed.

“Dunno why he still puts on such a show. Books in his study, pages all over his desk. We all know he couldn’t read a bloody menu if the war depended on it.”

“He’s too proud for his own good,” said Connell pointedly.

“And I’m to take a lesson from that, am I?” Doran snorted.

A companionable lull followed. Luca heard muffled noises, the shuffling of fabric.

“Mm,” Doran murmured. “You smell nice.”

“No one smells nice after six weeks on a ship, Dor.”

More shuffling. Luca could feel arousal in the air like a static field. 

“What about Annie?” said Connell, a sulky note in his voice.

“We have an understanding, I told you.”

“You’d tell me anything to get my hand on your cock.”

“And mine on yours. I’m a good friend, aren’t I? Ah, go on, I’ve been half-hard all day.”

“Finding Master Toby’s swordroll get you hot and bothered?”

“Nah, it’s the lad. Oh, don’t look at me like that, I’m not a child molester. But he makes you think about sex, doesn’t he? Looking how he does. Knowing what he is.”

“If you’re going to think about the lad while I wank you off—”

“I’m not thinking about him _now,_ idiot. I’m thinking about you.”

“Liar. You’re thinking about Annie.”

“Well, and Annie. Look, a man’s allowed to have some range to his imagination, all right?”

Connell muttered something. Doran groaned. The smell of wine and cock mingled nauseatingly in the close air of the cabin. Luca turned his face to the wall, swallowing against the sickness that rose in his throat.

He was _right there._ Connell and Doran had the master’s permission to use him. It was what Luca was _for._ But instead they were—using each other? 

No, that didn’t seem right. They were doing something else, something—mutual?

Luca dug his nails into his palms. None of this made _sense_. Sex was what free people did to slaves. Or sometimes slaves were made to fuck each other, but that was always for their masters’ pleasure. Luca knew that slaves had sex in private—the men and the women, anyway, in order to make more slaves—but if Connell and Doran just wanted to get off, they could do that with Luca. They didn’t have to make each other feel good.

Unless they wanted to. Like that moment at the Harlequin before panic set in, when Robert was kissing down Luca’s stomach and Luca had felt—Luca had _felt._

Even thinking of it now, desire snaked its tendrils down his belly. Lower. 

Luca pinched the bruised place on his thigh and twisted. The tendrils withdrew, leaving an ache he couldn’t name.

Doran came with a stream of curses, and Connell followed soon after. They settled easily into the languid interlude after orgasm that Luca had always experienced as relief. The room filled with the soft sounds of clothing being righted and bedsheets rearranged.

“Dunno why you always give me so much grief at the beginning,” said Doran, smugly sleepy. “You shut right up the second I get my hand down your trousers.”

“I’m just impressed you managed to get off without something up your bum,” Connel retorted. “What does Annie do, then, shove a finger in there?”

“She’s a broad-minded and enthusiastic lass, and that’s all I’m going to tell you.”

Connell laughed. He had a laugh like Robert's. As if he didn’t care who heard.

“Tomorrow morning’s going to be hell, isn’t it?” Connell sighed.

“Yep,” Doran yawned. “’Night, Con.”

“’Night, Dor.”

Luca listened to their breathing relax into the rhythms of sleep. Doran began to snore. Connell murmured dream-nonsense. 

Once he was sure they were asleep, Luca opened his eyes. In the darkness of the cabin, they seemed smaller somehow. Unthreatening. As if they could no more grab for Luca than a pair of shadows.

Half-consciously, Luca raised his hand to stroke his hair. He conjured Robert’s voice in his mind. _Good boy._

But it wasn’t the same. Luca dropped his hand, feeling foolish.

 _I’ll find you,_ Robert had said. But how could he find Luca now, with miles of sea between them? 

Luca shook himself. Of course Robert would find him. He’d promised, hadn’t he? And Robert always kept his promises.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is actually the first half of what was originally supposed to be one chapter, but I am having incredible difficulty writing it (for reasons that will probably become obvious) and realized I need to split up the angst marathon if I’m going to make it to the finish line.
> 
> This chapter contains explicit violence, onscreen death, the aftermath of torture, and references to euthanasia and suicide.

A shaft of light pierced the seam of Robert’s eyes. He had the impression of movement. Swift wheels; the clatter of hooves. His lashes were caked with grit. It took a few tries to peel his lids open. 

He was propped up at the far end of a bench lined with men, all grim-faced and filthy. They were shackled together at the wrists and ankles—including Robert, he realized, shifting in his seat. 

The memory came to him, sudden and unbidden, of bloodying his wrists on his restraints as he was forced to watch Crawley rape Luca.

With that memory came the realization that he could not feel his right hand.

Robert closed his eyes and took a steadying breath against the surge of panic that threatened to overwhelm him. Whatever he saw, he could not— _ could not _ —lose control.

He forced himself to look down.

He’d been so expecting to see a stump that for a moment his mind couldn’t make sense of the hand that lay curled in his lap, wrapped in a bloodsoaked bandage. He registered pain then, but distantly, like a drumbeat from a far shore.

Relief washed through him. He hadn’t lost his hand. He must’ve been given a painkiller, and a powerful one—but on whose command? Not Bors’s, certainly, nor Ademar’s. If Robert had any friends left in Lyonesse, they were either on the run or dead.

Hugo. Asher.  _ Luca…  _

_ Focus _ . 

How many guards? Surprisingly few for so many prisoners. Two at the other end of the carrier, on either side of the door; a third polishing his helmet midway down the opposite bench. The man sitting next to him was unshackled, though something about his defeated posture told Robert that he was as much a prisoner as the rest of them. Overgrown muttonchops half-swallowed his gaunt face. Blankets were mounded high on his lap and the bench beside him. Robert didn’t want to look too closely at the stains caked into the tattered fabric.

“Awake?” rumbled a low voice. “Lady, I thought you’d croaked.”

It took Robert a moment to realize that he’d been spoken to in Keld. He turned to see the King’s gladiator sitting next to him. His shaggy fair hair hung in mats around a surprisingly intelligent face. 

“So they got you, too, eh?” said Robert.

The gladiator jerked around to stare at him.

“You speak our language?” he said, astonished.

“Some. Poorly.”

“Better than any wolf I’ve ever heard.”

That was a low bar to clear. Barbarians were often forced to learn Solasan, but few Solasans deigned to learn Keld. Robert was only good enough to hear how bad he was. Luca—

_ Focus _ .

“Where are they taking us?” Robert asked, nodding at the guards.

The gladiator’s expression darkened. He looked away.

“Absalom.”

Dread ran cold fingers down Robert’s spine. Absalom was a hole in the world. Nobody made it out alive.

Gods,  _ Luca.  _ He could not be sent to Absalom. He would be raped. Brutalized. And there would be nothing Robert could do, no way to protect him—

Robert forced himself to take measured, even breaths until his heartrate slowed. What would Harrow say?  _ If you let your nerves get the better of you, my lad, your enemy’s already won.  _ And Robert would not let Ademar win.

Beside him, the gladiator was fiddling with the cuffs, turning them around and around on his bruised wrists. His hands were almost cartoonishly oversized, as if they’d outgrown the rest of him. Robert remembered how they’d squeezed Luca’s waist as blood ran down his legs.

“You know the King’s favorite,” said Robert, trying to keep his voice neutral. “The one they call the Golden Bird.”

A storm of emotion passed over the gladiator’s face. He twisted against the cuffs, knuckles going white.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “I—yeah.” Seeing Robert’s expression, he said, “Why? What’s he to you?”

“Everything,” said Robert, and gods, wasn’t that the truth. “We’ve known each other since we were children.”

“I didn’t want to,” the gladiator blurted. “The things I did to him—”

“I know,” said Robert, even though he hadn’t, not until just now. “It isn’t your fault.”

“That’s what he said. He said the Lady would forgive me.”

The gladiator’s arms were wrapped around his stomach, his hair a shivering curtain around his anguished face. Robert felt a stab of sympathy so acute it was almost physical. He wished that he could offer the man some reassurance, but they were in chains in a caravan bound for hell. In these circumstances, words of comfort would sound like a bad joke.

“When the Watch came,” said Robert, “was he—?”

Robert couldn’t bring himself to finish. But the gladiator shook his head.

“He wasn’t arrested,” said the gladiator. “No one else knew about him except Khalkeus and his handler. Khalkeus is in the wind.”

“And the handler?”

“Hanged himself before the Watch showed up.”

“Smart man.” 

“Lucky, more like. Wish the rest of us had gotten a tipoff.” He jerked his chin at the lump of blankets. “Especially that fellow.”

As if hearing him, the blankets uttered a low, rending moan. For the first time, Robert saw the outline of a body beneath the soiled fabric. He knew at once why he hadn’t noticed the man before. The shape of him was wrong. As though parts were missing.

To distract himself, Robert said, “You’re good with a sword.”

“So are you,” the gladiator returned. “I was there when you thrashed Carlyle. But I see they got to your hand.”

“I’m left-handed.”

The gladiator stared at him for a moment before bursting into laughter. He said something in Keld, too quickly and in too thick an accent for Robert to catch. Seeing Robert’s confusion, he said it again, slowly this time.

“ _ Gildrsuidhevúlfen _ . The wolf so clever it sits in its own trap.”

Robert thought of a wolf with Ademar’s face. A trap with a velvet cushion on the spring. 

He laughed—half-wild, too loud. One of the guards by the door banged his gauntlet against the wall.

“Oy!” he shouted. “Knock it off with the talking.”

Robert leaned back so that he was blocked from sight by the gladiator’s bulk. In undertone, he asked, “Which one has the key?”

“Fellow with the helmet,” the gladiator murmured back.

As they watched, the guard sneezed all over the helmet he’d just wiped clean.

“Not in the best of health, is he?” said Robert.

“Where I’m from,” said the gladiator, “a cold like that can be fatal.”

They grinned at each other. Extremity made for fast allies. Already Robert felt that he’d known the man for years.

“I’ll take Sneezy if you handle the two by the door,” he said.

“Easy.”

Slipping back into Solasan, Robert called, “Hey, you! Yes, you with the helmet. I have a question.”

The guard blinked. Robert could see the effect of his Gracegarden accent and lordly attire; the man was clearly used to defering to nobles, not jailing them.

“Prisoners don’t ask questions,” he said gruffly.

“Yes, well, my grandfather is the Grand Chancellor, so you’ll find the rules don’t apply to me,” said Robert. “Why is it that you’re polishing that helmet so assiduously? You run the risk of seeing your own face in it.”

“Have you got something to say about my face?” said the guard, going purple.

“I only wish to express my condolences.”

The guard seemed to consider a range of responses before settling on, “Shut up.”

“Hives are a dreadful affliction,” Robert went on. “One would think the Watch might crack the purse a little wider to send such a valued member of the force to a dermatologist.”

The guard shoved himself to his feet. A whip coiled in his belt; when he grabbed the haft, Robert felt the gladiator flinch.

The chains connecting their shackles were bolted to the wall. Robert had been gathering the slack in his good hand. The second the guard was within range, he struck out, whipping him in the face with the slack end and using the momentum to propel his chain-wrapped fist into the guard’s nose. 

The guard dropped to his knees. Robert dropped with him, pulling the slack chain around the man’s throat. Using the bolted end for leverage, he yanked—just once, at just the right moment.

The guard’s neck snapped. 

There was no time to think. As soon as the guard went limp, Robert was rolling him over and snatching the keys from his belt. He managed to unlock his own cuffs while using his wrists to drag the guard’s shortsword from its scabbard. The cuffs clicked open and fell away. 

Robert launched himself to his feet. The gladiator was holding off the two remaining guards. He’d wrapped his chains around his forearms and was using them as gauntlets to deflect the guards’ artless swordstrokes.

The second Robert saw an opening, he swung his cuffs like a flail, catching one of the guards squarely in the face. Bone crunched. He went down, the hole in his forehead streaming. 

Hearing him fall, the other guard turned, exposing his side. Robert already had the sword in his hand; it was the word of a moment to bury it between the guard’s ribs. Red streamed from his mouth. He crumpled to the floor with an expression of surprise.

“Ah, I had ’em right where I wanted ’em,” said the gladiator with a grin. “You stole my kill, Wolf.”

Robert laughed. He toed the key to the gladiator, who caught it one-handed and unlocked his cuffs.

“I haven’t killed anyone in years,” Robert said.

It was intended as a confession, but perhaps it sounded like a brag. In any case, the gladiator looked impressed.

“You’ve got a knack for it,” he said.

“Yes,” said Robert, looking down at the three lifeless bodies on the floor. “I always did.”

The gladiator stuck out his scarred right hand—and then, remembering Robert’s injury, switched to his left. 

“Ged, son of Huw.”

“Robert, son of no one,” said Robert, with a firm shake.

Abruptly, he became aware that everyone in the caravan was staring at them. Of course; they’d just seen a barbarian and a nobleman band together to take down three armed guards. The fact that Robert was speaking Keld was probably confounding enough.

The man under the blankets was making horrible gurgling noises in his throat. It took a moment for Robert to realize that he was trying to laugh.

“Always a – dramatic entry – Fitz,” the man rasped.

If Robert hadn’t nearly been knocked off his feet, he would not have known that it was the caravan that had stopped and not the world. He caught his balance automatically. The shortsword was already back in his left hand. The right had begun to throb dully. Like a thumb pressed into the red center of a wound. The fingers were numb; he couldn’t move them.

_ Focus.  _

With silent coordination, Ged and Robert moved to the caravan doors. Ged freed the lock; Robert mouthed a countdown.  _ Three. Two. One.  _

Their boots hit the doors at the same time, kicking them wide open. There was a thump of impact as whoever was on the other side was knocked to the ground. 

The sudden bright of the outdoors after so long in darkness left Robert half-blind. No time to let his eyes adjust; he was already out of the caravan and moving fast. He saw the blurred shape of a guard on his back. He raised his sword.

“ _ Stop! _ ”

That voice. Robert knew it.

He turned to see Asher running towards him. He wore a guard’s uniform, two sizes too big. Alfred came barreling two paces behind, similarly outfitted, except that his uniform gapped over his chest. They looked like characters from a bad play. 

Robert had the mad thought that this was all a trick somehow. That they had been sent by Bors to fool him into thinking he was safe.

Then he remembered the guard on the ground. He was still holding his sword to the man’s throat.

Alfred reached Robert first. He skidded to a stop, panting. Once he’d recovered his breath, he held up his hands as if to calm a wild animal.

“Robert, put the sword down,” said Alfred. “The man you’ve got there, that’s Hal Turner. He’s one of ours.”

“We’ve met,” said the guard faintly.

Robert looked down at him. The face that looked back was familiar. They’d been introduced once at The Thorn. A lifetime ago.

Like a glass reversing its scope, Robert saw himself through the man’s eyes. A bloodstained giant with his teeth bared and his eyes alight with the fever-glint of insanity.

“Robert,” said Asher softly.

Hearing his voice broke the spell. Robert dropped his sword and grabbed Asher with his good hand, searching him for injuries.

“I’m fine. I’m  _ fine,  _ Robert, they didn’t arrest me,” said Asher, squirming away. “I was at The Thorn with Mama and Elif, we got tipped off the same time as Kemp.”

“And instead of escaping with them, he came tearing back to Lightcliffe to find you,” said Alfred, rolling his eyes.

“They’d’ve arrested you too if I hadn’t,” Asher retorted. “The Watch was all over like roaches, Robert. We barely got out.” He did a double take. “Buggered fields of hell, you look awful. And your  _ hand! _ What’d those fuckers do to you? Who was it? I’ll kill him.”

But Robert’s mind was elsewhere. To Alfred, he said, “The guards in my caravan. Were they—”

“Ademar’s,” said Alfred. “We didn’t have time to replace the whole company.” Seeing Robert’s expression, he said, “They’re dead, I take it?”

Robert nodded. He was becoming aware of the activity around them. There were three other caravans, he saw now. Freed prisoners milled around, a few still clutching their unlocked shackles. Some had clearly been longer-term guests at Bridesea; their beards grew in colorless tangles over soiled jail-grays. But most had the look of men dragged straight from their homes. They wandered between the caravans with the lost look of sailors too long at sea who’d returned to find that in their absence everything familiar had been burned to ash.

Pain gnawed at Robert’s hand. A bead of fresh blood rolled down his little finger.

“Where’s Bors?” he asked.

Hearing the name, Asher went pale. His hand flew to the scar on his cheek.

“Bors?” said Alfred, furrowing his brow.

“He’s the King’s interrogator. He—”

Hugo. 

_ I have to get to him,  _ Robert thought—and in the next moment he was back in the caravan. Even with the doors open, it was dark. As if some shadows not even light could penetrate. 

Hugo was curled on the bench, moaning. The man with the muttonchops crouched beside him. He was holding a syringe with the needle buried in Hugo’s neck.

“What the fuck are you giving him?” Robert shouted.

“The same painkiller I gave to you,” said the man calmly, depressing the plunger. “What’s left of it, anyway.”

“’s all right, Fitz,” Hugo mumbled. “You – always did – worry – too much.”

Robert’s laugh was half a sob.

“Have you ever considered, Hugo, that perhaps you might have worried a little more?”

The ghost of a smile curved the torn corner of Hugo’s mouth.

“It’s crossed – my mind.”

Robert knelt beside him. This close, he could smell old blood mingled with new. Burnt flesh. The rot of infection. And worse. The odors a body produced when it started to break down while the heart was still beating.

The doctor pulled the blankets back up to Hugo’s chin. Robert was horribly, selfishly glad that he couldn’t see whatever ruin Bors had made of the rest of him.

There was a small place on Hugo’s jaw where the skin was still intact. Very lightly, Robert touched it. Hugo shuddered once, violently, before relaxing.

“When did they take you?” Robert asked quietly.

“Right after the – meeting. Tried to think of – skating in winter – the girls in the park – my m-mother—” He made a wet, choking noise. “I gave – you up – last.” 

“Couldn’t remember my name, eh?”

It was a poor attempt at humor, but Hugo gave one of his awful gurgling laughs. The sound worked like a knifetip into the cracks in Robert’s heart.

“You have – so many – names.”

“One less now,” said Robert, stroking his jaw. “You’ve done me a favor, Hugo; I’m not an Argent any more.”

“You’re – welcome.”

The way he said it, with that note of smug affection in his voice—for a moment they were back in the flat, winding each other up over a bottle of wine while Val tried in vain to study.

Fury rose like hot smoke behind Robert’s eyes. He rounded on the doctor.

“Who the hell are you, anyway?” he demanded. “Who do you work for? The Guard? The Watch? Bors?”

The doctor’s breath hitched. His gaze fell to his hands, folded neatly in his lap. They were trembling, the way a man trembled when he had been cold for a very long time.

“Fitz,” said Hugo quietly. “They make him – keep prisoners – alive. He’s – a prisoner – too.”

Of course. Robert had known that. He just—he was so  _ angry _ .

“I’m sorry,” said Robert, meaning it. “I’m a rude bastard. Hugo can tell you.”

“Can’t take – you anywhere,” Hugo agreed. 

He was about to say something else, but a fit of coughing overtook him. Red foam bubbled on his lips. The doctor used the last clean corner of his sleeve to wipe it away.

“Fitz,” Hugo gasped once he’d recovered his breath. “Remember – when we were – at school?”

Robert remembered. He remembered so clearly that for a moment it was as if they were still there. It was as if they’d never left.

“’Course I do,” he said. “Breaking into the library after midnight. Drinking ourselves sick. Never turning a damned thing in on time. Val clucking over us like a mother hen.”

“He was – in love – with us both.” Hugo closed his eyes, as if against a light too bright to bear. “Those were – golden days. We didn’t think – how fast – they’d end.”

“They haven’t ended,” said Robert roughly. “Nothing’s ended, Hugo. Don’t talk like that.”

A tremor passed over Hugo’s face. With effort, he forced his eyes open.

“You never – told me – how you – learned – barbarian.”

Robert tried to laugh, but it came out wrong. Not like a laugh at all.

“The boy I love,” he said. “He taught me.”

“Always so – full of – secrets, Fitz,” said Hugo, wistful. “The look – on your face. He must be – really – something.”

“He is. You’ll meet him someday.”

Hugo tried to smile. 

“No, Fitz,” he said softly.

The doctor touched Robert’s arm. In a voice too old for his face, he said, “We should speak outside.”

“I can’t leave him,” said Robert.

“’s all right, Mother,” Hugo murmured, eyelids drifting shut. “’m just – going to – rest.”

Robert waited until Hugo’s labored breath had slowed into a pattern a little like sleep. Then he let the doctor guide him from the caravan.

He was greeted by the sight of Ged and Alfred staring each other down. That’s right; Alfred had served in the Territories. Clearly there was no love lost between him and the barbarians.

“Problem?” said Robert, pointedly inserting himself between them.

“Nope,” said Alfred, popping the  _ p _ . “Just figured the Guard had put that dog down, is all. Only Ademar would be stupid enough to send an animal for questioning.”

Robert knew better than to assume Ged hadn’t understood that remark. He was using the remains of his leather smock as a makeshift scabbard; his fingers lingered on the haft of his sword. Robert didn’t think Ged would be foolish enough to attack a Solasan in broad daylight, but they were all at the end of their rope.

“Alfred, I need you to be with Hugo while I talk to the doctor,” said Robert.

“Hugo Forteys?” said Alfred, startled. “He’s  _ alive? _ ”

“Yes. He’s—in a bad way.”

“He’s dying,” said the doctor quietly. “You should be prepared.”

Some unnameable emotion flickered over Alfred’s face. Then it was gone. He nodded, brisk as always.

“Understood. I’ll keep him company.”

Once Alfred was out of striking range, Ged threw Robert a look of appeal.

“You’re under my protection,” Robert reassured him “Just stay close.”

“You won’t have to tell me twice,” said Ged, relieved. “Your other friend went to secure the last caravan. It’s full of weapons. Good ones. Not that they’d let me near it,” he added bitterly.

Robert scrubbed his left hand over his face. The pain in his right was building. Like a set of teeth sinking deeper and deeper into the flesh.

Switching back to Solasan, Robert asked the doctor, “What’s your name?”

“Quinby. John Quinby.” Gloomily, he added, “Dr. Elmsworth never could get it right. Called me Quincy for an entire year.”

“I’m—” Robert began, then hesitated. He didn’t know what name to give.

“Lord Robert Argent,” said Quinby, saving him. “Yes, I know you by reputation. I was Assistant to the Royal Physician before my demotion.”

Curious despite himself, Robert asked, “How does the Assistant to the Royal Physician get demoted?” 

Quinby’s mouth tightened. For a moment, Robert thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then it all poured out of him, as if he’d only been waiting for someone to ask.

“Dr. Elmsworth performs experiments on the palace slaves. He was having the King’s boys dosed with Velox—which is for  _ horses _ —in order to develop a more stable strain. On his order, I gave one of the boys an injection and he—he had a seizure—” 

Convulsively, Quinby ran his hands through his hair. Knots caught against his knuckles and ripped at the scalp.

“Dr. Elmsworth said it didn’t matter. The boy wasn’t a favorite. It wasn’t like I’d killed the Golden Bird. But he was a  _ child, _ and so frightened, and I—I wouldn’t use Velox after that. Dr. Elmsworth decided I was soft. He had me exiled to the gladiator stable.” Quinby’s eyes flicked to Ged. “Gladiators, pleasure slaves—they’re the same, really. They’re all brought to Highcourt to die. But I didn’t know, before, how— _ slow _ it can be. How terribly, terribly slow.”

Quinby took a shuddering breath.

“There was a gladiator. He had been—mutilated. Horribly. I can’t even describe—anyway. I was ordered to keep him alive so that the entertainment could continue. I gave him a fatal dose of laudanum instead. I might even have gotten away with it had Dr. Elmsworth not alerted the Guard. 

“And that,” he finished bitterly, “is how the Assistant to the Royal Physician gets demoted.”

Robert felt a touch on his shoulder. 

“I saw what he did for that fighter,” Ged said. “His name was Ioan. From Ost, same as your boy. It was a mercy. Tell the doctor that. Tell him he’s—”

The word he used then— _ æremaith ór lig _ —was unfamiliar. It took Robert a moment to translate. 

“He says that you’re a good man,” Robert told Quinby.

Quinby’s laugh had a sharp, hysterical edge.

“I swore an oath to heal people,” he said, “and I have violated it in every possible way.”

“Can you heal Hugo?” 

Robert knew the answer. Still, grief twisted like a knife in his side when Quinby shook his head. 

“Not even with the best surgical theater in Lyonesse,” said Quinby. “I can keep him alive for a day, maybe two, but he’d curse me for it.” He spoke with rueful certainty, as though he'd been cursed before. “I’m sorry. I wish I could give you a better answer.”

Some dark part of Robert wanted to order him to do it anyway. To keep Hugo alive for as long as he could. To drag out his misery just so that Robert wouldn’t have to suffer the pain of losing him.

Instead, Robert said, “I understand. In can case, can you—” His voice stuck; he coughed to clear his throat. “Can you do for Hugo what you did for that gladiator?”

“If I could, I would’ve done it already,” the doctor admitted. “But the guards monitor my dosages too carefully. I’ve never been allowed enough to perform another release.” His mouth twisted. “No doubt they knew I would turn the needle on myself.”

“Hey, Robert!”

Asher was scudding over at his usual breakneck, pulling a group of men in his wake. Two were young, not even shaving age, with the broad, ruddy faces and square build of Midlanders. Robert guessed the older pair for Lyonesse, though they had the dust of the road caked into their linen greatcoats. As for the fifth man, his milky skin, oversized teeth, and vertical shock of black hair identified him as Ibrerran. He hung back, wearing an ironic expression which clearly communicated that while he was not presently on anyone’s side, he was willing to shift allegiance should the proper incentive offer itself.

“We’ve finally caught a break,” Asher announced. “The last caravan? It’s a fucking  _ armory _ . Just get a look at this sword,” he added, proudly indicating the rapier at his hip. “Silva says it’s real Ibrerran steel.”

“And who’s guarding the caravan now?” said Robert, rubbing his forehead. The thought of breaking up a run on the weapons made him want to lie down in the ditch beside the road and not get up for some time.

“We’ve got our men on it,” said the reedy man in the dark orange greatcoat. 

“And ours,” put in the taller of the Midlanders. He wasn’t quite glaring, but it was a near thing.

“Would you like to introduce me to your new friends?” Robert asked Asher, gripping fast to the last fraying thread of his patience.

“Oh, right!” Asher pointed at the Midlanders. “This is Freddie Bustament, and that’s his brother Jordie. They blew up those mills in Westmoor, remember?”

“In point of fact,  _ empo’nte _ , it was I who blew up the mills,” said the Ibrerran, smoothly inserting himself into the conversation. 

“Our plan, his munitions,” said Freddie, rolling his eyes. “Silva's just a merc.”

“Independent contractor,” the Ibrerran corrected. “Sergio Seguerra de Silva at your service,  _ empo’nte _ .”

“Contractually at your service,” muttered Jordie. “Don’t worry, he’ll remind you.”

“And that’s Willy Tyburn,” said Asher, jerking his thumb at the reedy man. “He’s been all over the paper. You know, the Terror of King’s Road?”

Robert had indeed read about the infamous highwayman who’d been waylaying highborn passengers travelling overland to Lyonesse. The Terror had held up Piers Ambrose a few months ago and relieved him of a small fortune—a goodly portion of which, Robert knew from Elif, had been sent along to Guye, compliments of Tyburn himself.

“I’m surprised they brought you in alive,” Robert said, offering his good hand. “That’s a compliment, by the way.”

“And I took it as such, m’lord,” said Tyburn, shaking with his left. His grip was surprisingly strong; he must be ambidextrous. “This quiet fellow here is Vetch. You can talk to him; he’ll sign his answers to me and I’ll tell you what he’s got to say.”

“Deaf?” 

“Nah, he can hear you fine. It’s just the talking part he can’t do. See, when he was a kid, Vetch shouted a troublemaker out of his mam’s tavern. Well, as fate would have it, the troublemaker was a lord. The next day he comes back with the Watch. ‘That’s the cheeky bugger,’ he says, and orders the bastards to cut out Vetch’s tongue.”

As Tyburn spoke, Vetch illustrated the story with a combination of gestures and expressions. Even the best pantomime actor in Lyonesse couldn’t have matched his skill. He had Asher and Jordie in stitches. Robert felt a tug at the corner of his mouth as Vetch mimed his bug-eyed terror at the knife coming toward him.

Then Robert thought of Hugo, who had lost so much more than his tongue, and the smile died.

“Tyburn, you know these parts,” said Robert, forcing his attention to other emergencies. “Do you know where we are?”

“This bit of the King’s is called Edgecliffe,” said Tyburn, “on account of it runs right along the coast. You wouldn’t know it with all this woods, but the water’s just about an hour’s ride out. Your caravan came westerly, ours easterly; given we’ve been on the road about a day and a half, I’d say Absalom’s a day further by caravan, half that on a good horse.”

Robert adjusted the points of his internal compass. Though he’d never travelled beyond the city walls, memorizing maps of Solas had been part of Grandfather’s educational program. Highborn children were always sent to summer in the provinces; it wouldn’t do for Robert to be caught out in a moment of ignorance.

“When did they expect us at Absalom?” he asked.

“Tomorrow morning, m’lord,” answered Hal Turner. He’d just appeared at Asher’s side, freshly kitted out in a new leather breastplate and broadsword.

“And how long do we have until they start to worry?”

“A few hours, m’lord. Maybe less. The whole place has been wound tight as a cuckoo clock since Ademar deployed all the officers to the border. Prisoners outnumber guards five to one. Everyone’s waiting for the top to blow. Last week the warden had a fellow executed just for looking at him funny.”

“You’ve been embedded with the guards awhile, then.” 

“Six months, m’lord. Digby and Coogan—they’re with the weapons—they’ve been there twice as long. And there are a dozen more of ours on the inside.”

“Do the other guards trust you?”

“Oh, yeah. Most of them are Lyonesse boys, same as us. We get along fine.” He hesitated before adding, “If I’m honest, m’lord, most of the guards don’t want to be there any more than the prisoners do.”

“Right,” said Robert. Various threads were gathering in his mind, but pain was making it difficult to tie them all together. “Thank you, Hal. This is very helpful. One last question. Do they know at Absalom which prisoners are being transferred from Lyonesse?”

“No, m’lord. That would be a security risk. The manifest is delivered with the prisoners.”

Alfred jumped down from the caravan. His implacable face was gray, eyes pinched at the corners.

“Hugo’s asking for you,” he told Robert in undertone.

Hearing Hugo’s name, Asher snapped around.

“Hugo? From The Thorn? The good-looking one who’s always after Elif? He’s  _ here? _ ”

An image of Hugo flashed in Robert’s mind: laughing, head thrown back, radiantly handsome, his eyes alight with mischief. The last thing Asher needed was to see Hugo as he was now. Robert could spare him that, at least.

“Asher, I need to know how many of these men can fight and who needs the doctor,” said Robert. “Can I trust you to find out for me?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Now, Asher,” said Alfred without looking at him.

Asher threw Alfred a truly poisonous glare before stalking off, muttering mutiny under his breath.

There was no time to worry about Asher’s temper. For some reason, everyone was looking at Robert with the keen expectancy of men awaiting orders. Perhaps under these circumstances any direction was welcome, even if it came from a crippled whore’s bastard too weak and worthless to protect the ones he loved most.

_ Focus _ . 

“Right,” said Robert, rubbing his forehead in a futile attempt to quell the rising ache. “Hal, I’m appointing you Master at Arms. Tyburn and the Bustaments can each elect one of their men to assist you, as long as the other agrees to their selection. And we’re in dire need of crowd control; I’m open to ideas.”

“Don’t worry about that, m’lord,” said Tyburn. “One of my boys found dry rations and a water keg. Everyone’s starving; once they hear the supper bell, they’ll be easy to herd. Get their minds off the situation, too.”

A sound proposal. Robert looked at the Bustaments, who exchanged a glance before nodding in unison. Silva looked put out at not having been consulted. Robert could already tell that managing this many personalities was going to be a festival of delights.

“What are we going to do with the barbarian?” asked Alfred abruptly. He was regarding Ged with an expression that indicated he had a list of violent suggestions.

“His name is Ged, son of Huw, and he’s as much a part of this as any of us,” said Robert, adopting the sharp, deliberate tone that Grandfather used when he wanted a point to stick in the head like a stiletto. “Anyone who gives him trouble will answer for it.  _ Anyone _ ,” he added, pinning Alfred with a look. “Understood?”

The men nodded, some more reluctantly than others. After a long moment, Alfred jerked his chin in assent.

Robert’s hand was throbbing now, waves of acid heat radiating from three distinct points. The holes where the nails had gone in. Absently, and without emotion, he wondered whether he would still have a right hand in the morning.

“Alfred, I need a knife,” he said, marveling at the calm in his voice. “Something sharp. Easy to conceal.”

Alfred understood at once. He reached into his jerkin and brought out a leather-wrapped blade. Robert undid the bindings with his teeth; they fell away to reveal a double-edged dagger, just the right size to hide in a sleeve.

“Cheers,” said Robert, tucking the blade into the torn silk of his jacket.

“You should let me do it,” said Alfred.

Gods, Robert wanted to. But he’d already failed Hugo enough. He couldn’t trust this task to anyone else.

“I appreciate the offer, but no,” said Robert. “When the gods list my sins, dereliction of duty won’t be among them.”

An unspoken understanding passed between them. Alfred nodded once, decisively, as making up his mind about something. If Robert didn’t know better, he’d think that Alfred finally approved of him.

“One last thing,” said Robert, turning back to the men. “The Watch stripped me of my title when they arrested me. I’m glad to be rid of it. I’m no more a lord than any of you. We’re all equals here.”

Once they were out of earshot, Alfred elbowed Robert and said, “We’re all equals, but you’re the equal giving orders?” Seeing Robert’s horror, he laughed. “I’m just taking the piss, my lord. You’ve got the right idea. If someone doesn’t take charge of these men, they’ll tear each other apart.”

He was right, and yet— _ Gods, I don’t want it to be me _ . If these men needed a leader, let it be Alfred, or Hal, or Tyburn. Anyone but Robert. He knew what he needed to do for Hugo; he just didn’t know whether he had enough strength left to hold himself together after the thing was done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I solemnly swear that things will get better. (But not until after the next chapter.) (I'M SORRY.)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains an act of voluntary euthanasia and some medical business. 
> 
> I’m probably going to stop warning for violence in Robert’s chapters; we’re in the midst of war, and people are going to die onscreen from here on out. Please make sure you heed the tags and be mindful of your personal threshold for this sort of material.

The shadows inside the caravan had grown denser in Robert’s absence. Hugo was thrashing, his face clammy with sweat, forehead welted where he’d banged it against the wall. His moans were toneless, tearing, constant. Quinby crouched by his side, trying to soothe him. His case lay open on the floor. Every vial was empty.

With tormented effort, Hugo managed to focus on Robert. His eyes were an abyss.

“Fitz,” he rasped.

Robert knelt beside him, careful to position himself so that Hugo wouldn’t have to strain to see him. 

“I’m here, Hugo,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind what was left of Hugo’s ear.

“Never thought – dying – would be – so much – work,” said Hugo ruefully. “I can’t – stay, but I – can’t seem to – go…”

A wracking cough shuddered through him. The blanket slipped from his shoulder. Before Quinby could right it, Robert caught a glimpse of white bone through mangled flesh.

“Need it to end,” Hugo gasped. “ _Please_ —”

“I’ll end it, Hugo,” said Robert, catching Hugo’s flailing stump of a hand in his whole one. “We’re going to send you home.” 

Relief washed over Hugo’s face. For a moment, he looked almost at peace.

“Thank you,” he whispered. Then, with a quiver in his voice, he asked, “Will it – hurt?

“No. The doctor’s going to give you a shot. There won’t be any pain.”

“No pain…” Hugo’s laugh was hysterical. When he caught his breath, he managed to say, “Can it be – outside?”

Robert hadn’t seen Ged climb into the caravan, but he stepped forward now.

“I can carry him,” he told Robert in Keld. “Tell him I’ll be careful.”

Ged was true to his word. For so large a man, he handled Hugo’s broken body with extraordinary gentleness. Cradled in his arms, Hugo looked like a child being carried to bed by his nurse.

“What a steed,” Hugo murmured, resting his head on Ged’s shoulder.

The lull of late afternoon had settled over the road. The light filtering through the leaves made patterns in the silver veil of dust. Robert heard the trilling of a bird high in a tree. He imagined small black eyes peering down at them with bright incomprehension.

Robert sat cross-legged at the base of a tree. Ged arranged Hugo in his arms. He wasn’t nearly as heavy as he should have been.

Being moved had clearly agitated Hugo’s injuries. He was trying not to thrash, but his head jerked from side to side, teeth gnashing together.

“Please – hurry,” he gasped. “I can’t—”

“The doctor’s filling the syringe now,” said Robert, smoothing back his hair. “It won’t be long.”

Quinby had brought out his case, a prop for their bitter little pantomime. He snapped it open and busied himself inside.

In a deft, practiced movement, Robert let the knife slide from his sleeve and into his hand. Hugo’s eyes were squeezed shut, his breath coming wet and labored. For a blink of time, Robert saw the laughing Hugo ripple over him like light on water. Then he was gone.

“Tell me about the girls in the park,” said Robert.

Hugo’s face smoothed.

“Ah, they’re so lovely,” he whispered. “Flowers in their hair—”

Robert pulled the knife across his throat. Just once, at just the right moment.

Blood arced through the air. Hugo jerked, gurgled, and was still.

Time passed. After awhile, Robert registered the buzz of insects in the flowerbushes. Strange to think that creatures so small and insignificant had outlived Hugo. That they would go on outliving him, day after day, until they too fell and became a part of all things.

The body in Robert’s arms was heavier now. More substantial, but somehow less real.

A figure appeared over him. Its broad shoulders blocked out the light. 

“Robert, let us take him,” said Alfred quietly.

It took all Robert’s will to keep from snarling at him. He realized that was hunched over Hugo like an animal guarding its young. 

_No,_ he thought, _guarding its kill_ , and had to swallow back bile.

Robert forced himself to straighten. He forced himself to meet Alfred’s eyes. Thankfully he found no pity there, only whatever dark affinity bound men like them together.

“I won’t have him buried by the road,” Robert said. “Put him somewhere out of the way. We can give him to the sea once this bloody business is over.”

Alfred nodded.

“Consider it done.”

Without Hugo in his arms, Robert had nothing to distract him from the pain. His ruined hand curled in his lap like a dead leaf. As he watched, a bead of blood rolled down the blanched hollow of his wrist. Funny; he couldn’t feel it.

“Robert, listen to me,” said Alfred in a low voice. “I know you’re sad about Forteys, but I need you to take those feelings, crush them into a ball, and shove them way, way down. We’re standing on a knife’s edge, and all these men are looking to you.”

A laugh tore itself from Robert’s throat.

“Gods help anyone who looks to me for anything,” he said. “I’m no commander, Alfred.”

“Well, these fellows think different.”

“What, because I have a posh accent and I’m good with a sword?”

“Yeah, basically,” said Alfred with a shrug. “Lords give orders; we follow. Old habits die hard, and sometimes they don’t die at all. Kemp can write his pamphlets ’til the sea rises in Enkaare, but the fact is that these poor sods need a leader. Now, you’re going to stop feeling sorry for yourself and man the fuck up, because if you don’t, we’re all ass-up and _fucked_. Got it?”

“Crudely put,” said Robert, “but I take your point.”

Getting told off by Alfred was strangely bracing. The world may be in the process of dissolving beneath Robert’s feet, but here at least was some solid ground.

Hal Turner had been hovering in the periphery; now he stepped forward, obviously reluctant to interrupt. A jockeylike little man in a guard’s uniform bounced on the balls of his feet beside him.

“I’m sorry to bother you, m’lord—I mean—” Hal hesitated. “What should I call you, sir?”

 _You have so many names, Fitz._ Robbie Blackpot. Robert Fitzrobert. Lord Robert Argent III. But he wasn’t any of those people anymore. 

“Robert Black—” Robert began.

Then he cut himself off. No, he didn’t want Fanny’s name. It was true what he’d told Ged; he wasn’t anyone’s son.

“Just Robert Black,” he said.

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but there’s news. Digby here rode out just this morning from Absalom. And, well—”

“It’s Tam Tregeryth, sir,” Digby interrupted, unable to contain himself. “The caravan arrived late last night. They were captured near Breakwater. Kenever’s Red Right Hand, and a dozen of the fiercest Dogs of Guye with him. Half Kenever’s War Council, I heard.”

Tam Tregeryth. Robert had heard that name before, uttered in the halls of Highcourt with a shudder and at The Thorn in tones of reverence. Tregeryth was Kenever’s most trusted lieutenant—or his attack dog, depending on who you were talking to. Legend had it that he was a tactical genius, invincible in battle. 

So what the hell had he been doing sniffing around Ademar’s stronghold at Breakwater? 

That was a question for another time. For now, Robert had more pressing concerns.

“Have they been put to the question?” he asked.

“Not yet, sir. The King’s interrogator sent word from Lyonesse that they weren’t to be touched until he arrived.”

That must be why Robert’s interrogation was cut short; Bors had been distracted by the tug of an even bigger fish on his hook. If Robert lived long enough to meet Tregeryth, he would have to shake the man’s hand. If he still had a hand to shake.

_Focus._

“Is the interrogator on the road?” Robert asked.

“No, sir, he’s been delayed,” said Hal. “There’s trouble in Lyonesse. Another bread riot. This time they’ve spilled out of Docktown and into the Merchant Quarter. The mob’s smashing windows, setting rubbish on fire, pelting dung at the Watch. You know, the usual. Anyway, your caravan was the last out before they closed the city gates.”

“How many men are guarding Absalom right now?”

“A little over two hundred. And they’re boys, really. The best were all sent to Angarrick.”

Two hundred guards for five hundred prisoners. Robert had faced worse odds.

“I’m going to need a map of Absalom,” he said. 

“No problem, sir,” said Digby, bouncing on his heels. “Coogan and I can slap one up easy. Gods know we’ve covered every inch of the damn place on rounds.”

In fact, Digby seemed to have channeled his deep and abiding hatred for Absalom into committing every nook and cranny to memory. As for Coogan, he turned out to be a surprisingly adept draftsman. Between the two of them, they soon had a working map of the keep and its grounds.

“There’s only the one entrance?” said Robert, examining the map over Coogan’s shoulder.

Coogan and Digby exchanged glances.

“Officially, yeah,” said Coogan, scratching his ear with the pen. “But you see this drain here? Water’s eaten away at the stone ’til the grate’s come loose. You can swing it wide enough to shimmy through, provided you’ve not been sneaking extra rations. Guards call it the Pipe, on account of we use it when we need to cadge a smoke. The warden’s got a lot of opinions about smoking,” he added darkly.

Digby muttered a colorful suggestion about what should be done with the warden and a large cigar.

“What d’you think?” Robert asked Alfred.

“We’re dead men either way,” he said, shrugging. “Might as well take Absalom down with us.”

With that dubious blessing, Robert had Hal Turner call a meeting of what he had begun to think of, only half-ironically, as his War Council. Tyburn, Vetch, and the Bustament boys were in markedly better spirits; Robert gathered that even a supper of cold beans on tack had gone a long way towards improving morale. 

“Is this the how-fucked-are-we talk, then, sir?” said Tyburn cheerfully. “Go on, don’t bother greasing us up before you ram it in.”

“Well, if you like it rough,” said Robert, grinning despite himself. “Here’s our situation. We can’t go back to Lyonesse. Perhaps a year ago we could’ve disappeared into the Midlands, but the Regiment’s swarming through the provinces now. And even if we had a ship, the Royal Navy is blockading the sea route to Guye.”

“So we’re stuck,” said Freddie Bustament. 

“Like a pig in a poke,” Jordie added.

“What’s the plan, boss?” asked Tyburn.

“We go on the offensive,” said Robert, unrolling the map. “This is Absalom Prison. You can see it was built for security—one entrance, three walls against a sheer cliff—but without a proper company of guards, every precaution becomes a liability.”

“And they haven’t got a proper company of guards,” put in Hal Turner. “Not for months. The warden’s doubled and tripled up the rounds to make up for it, but that just means the guards they do have are all asleep on their feet.”

“Meanwhile, we’ve got eighty men fit enough to fight and a dozen more of ours on the inside,” said Robert. “This could be the best chance we ever get.”

“Let me get this straight,” said Tyburn, holding up his hands. “You’re proposing we take Absalom with eighty men?”

“They don’t know we only have eighty men,” Robert pointed out. “Besides, I plan on the warden being distracted. You see, the Grand Chancellor’s grandson will be arriving for a surprise inspection.”

It took a moment for the penny to drop. When it did, Tyburn threw back his head and laughed.

“You’ve got balls the size of temple bells, I’ll give you that,” he said. “Absalom, though…I’m not doubting you, sir, but—well, we’ve all heard the stories. No one’s ever taken it.”

“That’s because no one’s ever tried,” said Robert. “They’ve never been mad or desperate enough. The lords are clever; they’ve built this place a reputation more daunting than any wall. Even if we fail, we’ll have proven that it’s possible to try.”

Vetch tugged Tyburn’s sleeve. He wove a pattern with his fingers—speaking their language of signs, Robert supposed. It was strangely beautiful to watch.

“He says he likes your plan,” Tyburn translated. “It’s better than waiting for the Regiment to hunt us down like rabbits. At least this way we die on our feet, like men.”

“He’s got a point,” said Jodie to Freddie. 

“Besides,” said Freddie, “if you think about it, Absalom’s just a really big factory, with prisoners instead of debt slaves.”

Robert took that as the Bustament stamp of approval. He turned to Silva, who had been hovering on the edge of the conversation, close enough to listen in but far enough to deny that he’s been eavesdropping.

“Silva, I hear that you’re a demolitions expert,” said Robert.

The mercenary looked up from the delicate work of shaping his cuticles with a paring knife. He smiled, revealing a twisted front tooth.

“Yes, _empto’nte._ I studied chemistry at _La Unver’sta_ before they kicked me out.”

Robert was about to ask why he’d been kicked out, then thought better of it. Instead he said, “I’m sure that the Prince of Guye could reward your services far more handsomely than the _padrelleros_ in Tetúan.”

“You don’t know the _padrelleros_ ,” Silva muttered.

“Didn’t you tell us they ran you out of Ibrerra?” said Jordie. “You said that if you ever go back, Papú Mateu will take your balls.” 

Silva threw him a look of betrayal. Freddie snickered.

“Under the circumstances, I might consider extending my services,” said Silva with a sniff. “But I want to be paid in real coin—falus or rialés. Crowns don’t spend in Oeud.”

“I’ll see what we can do,” said Robert, exchanging a glance with Alfred. Gods knew if he actually had the authority to make those kinds of deals on Kenever’s behalf, but that was a problem for another day.

“Looks like we’re storming Absalom,” said Tyburn, shaking his head. “You ought to be the one to tell the men, sir. Everything sounds better coming from a gentleman.”

Robert was about to correct him—he was even less a gentleman now than he’d ever been—but Alfred caught his eye. _Stop feeling sorry for yourself. These poor sods need a leader._

“Right,” said Robert, straightening. “Ged, can you give me a boost onto one of this caravans?”

Ged obliged. From this vantage, Robert could see their whole ragged company. Alfred put two fingers in his mouth and let out a piercing whistle. Every head turned to stare. For one dizzy moment it was as if Robert was back in the Star Chamber with all the lords looking on as the Watch clapped him in irons.

Robert didn’t give himself time to think. He shouted, “Fellows, listen up! I’ve got some good news and some bad news. Which d’you want first?”

Someone—Asher, Robert thought—shouted back, “Give us the bad news!” Everyone laughed.

“Right,” said Robert, grinning. “The bad news is that we’ve lost everything. The good news is, that makes us dangerous. We’ve got nothing left to lose now except our lives, and those are forfeit anyway. We might be dead men, but the dead die only once. That means every moment we have from this moment on is time we’ve stolen from the gods themselves.” He raised his voice. “So what are we going to do with that time? Are we going to cheat the gods? Or are we going to make ourselves legends?”

The explosion of cheering that followed was so unexpected that Robert nearly fell off the caravan. He tried not to look too taken aback.

“You all know where we were headed,” Robert continued once the cheers had died down. “You’ve all heard the stories. The people of Solas have lived too long in the shadow of that evil place. Well, no longer. We are going to free Absalom, and then we’re going to burn it to the fucking ground.”

This time the cheers were so thunderous that the caravan started to rock on its wheels. Robert realized that he was standing with his fist raised like the statue of Charles the Conqueror in Bromley Square. Feeling like an utter prat, he jumped down, landing in a crouch in front of Alfred.

“Nicely done,” said Alfred, pulling him up. “You know, Absalom is a big lump of stone on a seacliff. Naturally fireproof.”

“Oh, shut up, Alfred.”

Quinby’s vials may have been empty, but his case still contained a multitude of very sharp tools that reminded Robert unsettlingly of Bors’s own box of horrors. Quinby set up a little surgery on a flat stone by a stream a little ways into the woods—far enough, Robert noted grimly, that the men wouldn’t hear him scream.

Asher came tramping through the trees as Quinby was sterilizing his instruments. He paused on the verge of the clearing before edging closer, then stopped an arm’s-length from Robert.

“Found a flask on one of the guards,” he said awkwardly, holding it out. “It’s nasty stuff, though.”

“Oh, bless the _gods_ ,” Robert groaned, grabbing the flask and uncorking it with his teeth. 

Nasty stuff indeed. The reek seared his nostrils. This was the sort of bathtub gin that the girls at the brothel used to brew.

“Fields of hell,” Asher breathed. He was staring at Quinby’s instruments with equal parts horror and fascination.

“Unless you have a ticket, Asher, I’m afraid this is a private show,” said Robert, taking a swig of the dead guard’s rotgut.

To his surprise, Asher didn’t argue. He simply nodded and withdrew—leaving the clearing backwards, for some reason. Almost as if he didn’t want to turn his back on Robert.

Robert didn’t have time to wonder why. Quinby had lifted his ruined hand and was lightly squeezing the tips of his fingers. A prickle of gut-churning sensation needled through his arm. Robert swallowed a curse.

“What does that feel like?” Quinby asked.

“Like you’ve cracked my bones open and are running a dart-wheel down the marrow,” said Robert through clenched teeth.

“It’s a good sign that you still have that much feeling,” said Quinby, pleased. “You’ve suffered what we call a perforation injury. That means the puncturing object went all the way through your hand. You also have a second-degree burn from the branding iron. I cleaned and dressed your wounds at Bridesea, but wasn’t able to perform a thorough assessment. I’ll need to do that now.” He hesitated before adding, “It’s going to hurt rather a lot, I’m afraid.”

As he spoke, Robert drained the flask. The rotgut scalded pleasantly as it went down, leaving numb warmth in its wake.

“If I pass out, please do the courtesy of not waking me,” said Robert, laying his forehead on the rock.

Robert didn’t pass out. He wasn’t sure why; surely there must be some threshold at which his stubborn body ceased to function. He’d managed to lose consciousness when he was being branded, after all, and that couldn’t have hurt more than Quinby peeling the bandages from his macerated flesh.

“Well, I’m pleased to say that there are no signs of infection,” said Quinby as he did something horrible with what looked like a miniature icepick. Robert saw the flash of bone; he thought, nauseatingly, of Hugo.

“Brilliant,” he slurred, squeezing his eyes shut. “Capital stuff.”

By the time Quinby had finished, Robert was floating on the far edge of the world. He barely registered Quinby saying his name.

“—Robert. _Robert._ ”

“Hm?”

“The damage isn’t nearly as bad as I’d feared. The tendons, arteries, and carpal muscles are largely intact, and only one of your metacarpals was fractured. There’s a surgical theater at Absalom. If I can operate within the next forty-eight hours, you might recover up to as much as fifty percent of the function in your hand.”

Fifty percent of function. Robert’s vision blurred suddenly; he blinked to clear it.

“Well, at least the stupid fucker ruined the right instead of the left,” he said, with forced cheer. “Always a silver lining, eh?”

Quinby didn’t laugh. He’d been cleaning his bloodied instruments; now he laid them down and gave Robert a searching look.

“I appreciate that you have to keep a stiff upper lip for the men, but you don’t need to keep it quite so stiff for me, you know. I’m your doctor.” He paused, then began hesitantly, “What you did for your friend—”

“Yes, thank you, Quinby,” Robert interrupted. “Can you just—give me a minute?”

Quinby smiled, a little sadly. 

“Of course.”

Robert closed his eyes. He listened as Quinby gathered his things and left the clearing. The air seemed to close behind him, like the drawing of a curtain on an empty stage.

Stillness fell. Robert was alone.

He opened his eyes. It was the golden hour; the leaves made lace of the sunlight that shimmered through. Syrup-colored motes dappled Robert’s arms, gilding the fine red hairs. A bird wheeled lazily overhead—the same, perhaps, who had watched Hugo bleed to death in Robert’s arms.

“You can cry about it now,” Robert said aloud. “There’s no one to see you.”

But he seemed to be curiously empty of tears. The space inside of him was frozen over. When he thought of Hugo, he felt nothing. Just irritation so vast it threatened to consume him.

What a waste. What an utter, senseless waste.

 _Sometimes it isn’t until you’re out of it that everything catches up with you_. That’s what Robert had told Luca…gods, had it only been days ago? How quickly it had all fallen apart. 

Maybe Robert couldn’t grieve because he wasn’t out of it yet. Maybe he never would be. Every time he thought he’d escaped, he found himself right back where he began.

“Are you praying?”

Robert turned to see Ged hovering at the edge of the clearing. He looked sheepish, as if he really did think he’d disturbed Robert in a moment of spiritual repose.

“In a manner of speaking,” said Robert. “Would you like to join me?”

“I don’t worship your gods.”

“Neither do I,” Robert admitted. “Your people believe in a goddess, don’t they?”

A shutter closed over Ged’s face.

“We don’t talk about the Lady with outsiders.”

From the slight pause before _outsiders_ , Robert knew that he had been about to say _wolves._

“Fair enough,” said Robert. “If I had any faith, I supposed I’d want to keep it from the enemy.”

“You don’t treat me like an enemy,” said Ged. His voice lilted up at the end, as if the statement held a question.

“I certainly hope not,” said Robert firmly. “You don’t have any enemies here, Ged.”

Ged looked relieved. He motioned to the grass beside Robert; when Robert nodded, Ged crossed the clearing and sat heavily, shifting his sword into his lap.

“That boy, the King’s favorite,” he said, running a nicked palm along the scabbard. “Are you _dwyed_?” 

“I don’t know that phrase.”

“It means—” Ged paused, searching for the words. “Promised to each other.”

“Ah. In that case, yes. He’s—” Robert turned over his meager vocabulary for some approximation of what Luca meant to him. “ _Gwylyn le_.”

Ged started, then scowled.

“You call him that?”

“Sometimes. Why?”

“What do you think it means?”

“He told me that it means beautiful,” said Robert, dark suspicion gathering in his gut.

That suspicion was confirmed in the next moment when Ged shook his head.

“No. Not exactly. _Le_ , that’s what you’d use to call a thing—a treasured thing, like a horse or a sword. So _gwylyn le_ , that means ‘the beautiful thing I own.’”

“Oh,” said Robert, closing his eyes briefly against the stab of pain.

 _How do I call you beautiful in your language?_ Robbie had asked. They were lying beside each other, fingers interwoven. Luca’s lips were bright from kissing. He gazed at Robbie with eyes so wide and and full of worship that he looked mesmerized.

 _If I was yours, and you were pleased with me—if I’d been good, if I’d given you a reason to be pleased with me—you might…you might call me_ gwylyn le. 

Luca had been eleven. Only a child, and already so broken that the kindest fate he could hope for was to be a thing treasured instead of brutalized.

“What should I call him instead?” Robert asked. His voice was hoarse with exhaustion; he almost didn’t recognize it.

“ _Dwyiað ve_ , when you’re talking to other people,” said Ged. “And when you’re alone…” A wistful look came over his face “ _Cariad_.”

“ _Cariad_ ,” Robert echoed. “That’s beautiful. Do you have someone back home?”

Grief flashed in Ged’s eyes. He looked away.

“Sigrid. We were—you know, like you and him. _Dwyed_. Promised.”

Unconsciously, Ged’s fingers rose to brush the patch of empty skin below his breastbone. That’s right; Robert remembered Luca telling him that when men and women were betrothed in Kel, they wore a lock of their intended’s hair in a leather pouch around their neck. If Ged ever had such a token, it was gone now.

Robert thought of the hairpin he’d given Luca. Absently, he wondered what had become of it.

“Ged, I have to be honest with you,” Robert said. “This business we’re headed into? Between the two of us, I don’t expect to survive. Don’t get me wrong, I’m going to fight like hell,” he went on, seeing Ged’s expression. “But the odds are rather astronomically against us, and—well, I know this isn’t your fight. If you want to leave, I certainly won’t stop you.”

“Where would I go?”

“We’re close enough to the coast. You might be able to find a ship that would let you work off passage to Oued, or Ermin, or even back to Kel.”

Ged touched the heavy iron band locked around his neck.

“More likely they’d take the work for free and sell me back to the arena once it’s finished.”

“The Bustaments are—” Once again, Robert ran up against the limits of his vocabulary: if there was a Keld word for _abolitionist guerrillas_ , he didn’t know it. “They free debt slaves from factories. They’ll know how to take the collar off.”

“Easy enough for some bastard or another to clap it back on,” said Ged, shaking his head. “I’ve got to sleep sometime, you know. No. Any direction I go, I end up back in chains. Besides,” he added, arching a brow, “I’m as much a part of this as the rest of you, remember?”

“So you do understand more than you let on,” said Robert, kicking his foot.

Ged grinned. In thickly accented Solasan, he said, “Me, lord? No. Too stupid.”

All of the strain of the day surged up and was released as Robert threw back his head and laughed.

He must’ve been holding the muscles in his bad hand taut; laughing loosened them. A molten rush of agony rippled through his palm. He doubled over, hissing.

“You all right?” said Ged.

“Peachy,” said Robert through his teeth. Then, unable to help himself, he blurted, “The doctor says I’ll only get half my strength back in my hand. And that’s if I’m lucky.”

“Still pretty lucky,” Ged pointed out. “After all, you fight better with one hand than most men do with two. Anyway, you’ve got me at your back now. That’s three working hands between us. More than enough to rout your wolves’ prison and get falling-down drunk after.”

“Well, when you put it like that,” said Robert, grinning. “How could we fail?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters Five and Six were really difficult to write. I might take a brief mental health break and catch up on replying to all of your wonderful, treasured, deeply appreciated, and highly motivating comments. <3


	7. Chapter 7

The journey from Lyonesse to Hythe took two weeks, and Luca spent them being absolutely useless. He’d stopped being sick at least, thanks to Connell’s wonderful tea, but it was clear that even when Luca didn’t have his head in a bucket, there was no work for a pleasure slave on a battleship. At least not a pleasure slave no one was using.

Because Luca wasn’t being used. Not by anyone. He’d spent eleven years serving for pleasure, the better part of his life, and in all that time, no one had ever not used him. It didn’t make _sense._ He had no way of understanding his place when he wasn’t being fucked, no way to organize his world. It was like gravity had ceased to function, launching him into a state of perpetual freefall.

Connell and Doran had no more interest in Luca than Master Balkas. They had each other, and anyway, they were so busy that most nights they simply bolted down supper before collapsing on their pallets. Luca kept himself prepared, of course— _Serves you right if they take you dry, hole_ —but that was mostly out of habit. He no longer expected to be awoken by rough hands shoving his legs open.

Connell and Doran saw Luca as a burden, a child; they’d said as much when they were drunk on the master’s wine. If they looked at him at all, it was with pity.

Hodge looked at Luca with something more than pity. Luca would’ve spread for him gladly, gratefully, if Master Balkas ordered it—but Master Balkas hadn’t. Luca might be brainless, but he grasped enough of the politics of his new master’s household to know that if Hodge fucked him and Master Balkas found out about it, there would be trouble. The sort of trouble that could get a worthless, leg-spreading whore sent straight back to Highcourt.

Fortunately Doran and Connell were careful with the door. It was always locked unless they were in the storage room with Luca. There was only one key, and Doran wore it on his belt-ring.

Every morning after Connell and Doran had gone, Luca would wait on his pallet, hugging his knees to his chest. Every morning, the creak of floorboards; the hand on the doorknob; the rattle as it tested the lock. Then a muffled curse, followed by footfalls stalking back down the corridor.

Only once he heard Hodge round the corner would Luca be able to breathe again.

Even if he couldn’t serve his master properly, Luca could at least be useful in other ways. Useful enough to be worth all the food they were wasting on him, anyway.

(Luca hadn’t forgotten that Master Balkas was worried about the cost of keeping him. He ate as little as he could get away with. If it wasn’t for Connell forcing biscuits and bowls of soup at him, he would eat even less. Slaves weren’t supposed to be given food they hadn’t earned, no matter what Connell said.)

Setting the storage room to rights was a good place to start. Doran and Connell lived, quite cheerfully, in a state of utter and complete chaos. Rubbish was strewn everywhere; a layer of grit, soot, and crumbs carpeted the floor. It was disgusting. Luca couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to be dirty when they didn’t have to be.

He didn’t _think_ that he would get in trouble for cleaning. But everything was so strange here; Luca couldn’t be certain of anything. He just didn’t _know._

So he went about his task quietly at first. He swept away the cobwebs; then, when Con and Dor didn’t seem to notice their absence, he swept up the candle-ends and paper scraps and dog-ends of cigarettes.

No one punished him. He took this as an encouraging sign.

Luca scrubbed the floors next. This was a risky move: it required him to move the luggage against the wall, and of course he hadn’t been given permission to touch freemen’s things. If Luca had been so bold at the Harlequin, Master Boq would have had him caned. But this wasn’t the Harlequin, and it wasn’t Highcourt, and if Luca hadn’t gotten in trouble for the sweeping, he probably wouldn’t get in trouble for the scrubbing.

Probably.

But once Luca started, it was impossible to stop. He scoured the grime from the floorboards and the baseboards and the cracks in the wall. He hung the pallets over a beam and beat the dirt from them. He swept the dust from the table and the mantle. Then, feeling half-drunk, he polished the candlesticks and the sconces and all the shells in the box on the table.

Only once there was nothing left to clean did Luca look around the room and realize what he’d done. There was no hope that this would go unnoticed.

He was going to be in so much trouble.

By the time Connell and Doran returned that evening, Luca had bitten his nails to the quick. When the door swung open, he cringed into the corner, as if out of some faint hope that he might fold himself into its shadow.

Connell and Doran’s cheerful, jesting voices filled the room—and then went abruptly silent.

Luca’s eyes were fixed on the floor. He could hear the blood pounding in his ears.

“Melita’s tits,” said Doran mildly, gazing around. “What’d we do to deserve all this, then, Mouse?”

“I’m sorry,” Luca blurted.

“Sorry for what?” Doran snorted. “Getting the floors too clean?”

“I didn’t have permission,” Luca whispered, twisting his hands together behind his back.

“You didn’t need permission,” said Connell, in the tired voice he always used with Luca. “We ought to be thanking you for cleaning up our mess.”

“Gods know we live like barbarians—animals, I mean,” Doran amended, after Connell elbowed him.

“I touched the luggage,” Luca confessed. “I had to, in order to do the floors properly, but I was careful, I swear I careful, I marked where everything was and then I put it all back exactly where I found it—”

“Fields of hell, Mouse, don’t give yourself a heart attack,” said Doran, stretching. “You can stage a whole theatrical production with the luggage if you like, so long as you don’t break anything. And if you want to play housemaid, be my guest. Wouldn’t object to a cozy little fire in the mornings, and the chamber pots don’t clean themselves.”

“ _Doran!_ ” Connell hissed.

“What? He wants to be helpful, don’t you, Mouse?”

“ _Yes_ ,” said Luca fervently. “Yes, please, I do want to be helpful, thank you, yes, I do.”

“See?” said Doran, meeting Connell’s glare with a smug grin.

That night, Luca ate an entire biscuit and a bowl of soup without having to be told. He caught Connell watching him, pleased, and had to look away, guilt twisting his gut. Luca didn’t deserve approval he’d done so little to earn.

But he _would_ earn it. He knew how to work; he’d worked all his life. In Ost, children bloodied their fingers untangling nets and shucking oysters before they were even old enough to walk. Luca would show Doran and Connell that he wasn’t a burden. Then Master Balkas would see that the King’s whore was worth keeping after all.

That night, listening to the small noises Doran and Connell made as they slept, Luca let himself open the box in his mind and lift out a memory of Robert. Their last night together; his head pillowed on Robert’s shoulder. The clean smell and furnace warmth of Robert’s skin. The feeling—so unfamiliar—of being held. Not held down. _Cradled_ , like something precious.

Luca let himself be lulled to sleep by the steady rhythm of Robert’s heartbeat under his ear. He dreamed of gentle hands and a soft voice murmuring his name.

The next morning, Luca rose before the sun. Quietly, so no to disturb Connell and Doran, he unlatched the porthole, collected the chamberpots, and emptied their contents through the narrow opening.

After washing up, Luca took the tinderbox from the mantle. His hands shook a little at his own daring; it took a few tries to strike a flame. He lit the tidy nest of kindling, which caught at once. Soon the fire was crackling merrily, casting a lovely circle of warmth in the cold room.

Luca filled the kettle and hung it from the hook over the fire. He arranged the tea leaves carefully in Connell and Doran’s mugs. When the kettle whistled, he poured the boiling water over the leaves, releasing a cloud of perfumed steam.

“’s put the kettle on?” Connell mumbled.

Doran roused, bleary-eyed, and pushed himself up on his elbow. He blinked at Luca.

“’s the housemaid,” he said, with a drowsy grin. “Dunno how we got on without him.”

Hythe was a rocky beachhead emerging from the wet haze of fog. Luca had been given a thick woolly sweater and thick woolly socks and an old pair of Master Toby’s boots with paper stuffed in the toe, which was more clothing than he’d ever worn in his life. He followed Conncell out of the storage room and through the teeming belly of the ship, past the whistling, jeering soldiers, and up onto the deck, where the wind snapped his tunic against his legs and snatched hair from his braid to whip around his wide-eyed, slack-jawed face.

Because he was _home._ Or no, not home—the land was flatter here, stonier, and the sky was the wrong shade of gray.

But _oh_ , the sky. It opened over him endlessly, unbroken by rooftops or ship masts. So vast it had its own gravity. Luca was pulled up and out of himself, dissolving in all directions, riding the wind into that endless vault of light—

“Luca?”

Luca realized that he was gazing up at the sky with his mouth hanging open like a crazy person. Connell was staring at him.

“Sorry,” he said, cheeks burning, “I’m sorry, I just—the _sky_.”

Even to his own ears, he sounded cracked. But Connell’s expression softened; he looked at Luca as if he understood.

“They didn’t let you out much in Lyonesse, did they?” he said.

Luca shook his head. Of course not; pleasure slaves were supposed to be kept locked away. Like Melchior did with Ganymene when he hid his beloved in the heart of the House of the Gods so that no one else could touch him. For nine years, Luca had only been outside for the time it took to move him from one owner to another.

Doran tossed a crate down on the deck with a thud that made them both jump.

“Toby’s pitching a fit,” Doran announced, wiping his hands on his tunic. “He’s locked himself in quarters and says he’ll only consider entering into crisis negotiations with Connell, whatever the hell that means. Anyway, I told the master to leave him with the ship, but apparently Lady Amelia wouldn’t approve.”

“Master Toby’s not keen on marching to Redditch,” said Connell with a sigh.

“None of us are keen on marching to bloody Redditch, Con, but some of us don’t have the luxury of throwing a tantrum over it,” said Doran sourly. “Mouse, the master says we’re to unload these crates and then fetch up all the luggage. Think you can handle that?”

Luca nodded.

“I’m stronger than I look,” he said.

Doran eyed him dubiously.

“Guess you’d have to be,” he said. “See you don’t break an arm off, eh? Dunno how Master Balkas would explain that to the King.”

Luca knew that he was a pathetic weakling, and it was true that pleasure slaves weren’t put to the sort of hard labor that house and field slaves had to endure, but whatever strength was required by being fucked over and over again for days on end translated surprisingly well to the work of hauling crates down a gangplank and onto a waiting cart. The rough wood against his palms, the wind scouring his skin with sand, the delicious stretch in his muscles—it felt _good_ to use his body instead of having his body used. Like coming alive inside of himself.

“All right there, Mouse?” Doran called.

Luca turned to answer—and saw a crowd of clownlike face peering down their beaks at him from out of the cliffside at Doran’s back.

He stopped in his tracks. Laughter surged in his chest; he couldn’t cover his mouth fast enough.

But Doran didn’t look angry. He straightened in surprise, then saw what Luca was staring at. A grin broke over his face.

“What, you’ve never seen a puffin before?”

 _Puffin!_ What a wonderful word. Luca rolled it around in his mouth.

“Is that what they’re called here?” he asked.

“That or jesters, on account of their noses,” said Doran. “What d’you call them in barbarian, then?”

“ _Pundeen_.”

“ _Pundeen!_ ” echoed Doran, delighted. “Sounds like pudding—and they do look like fat little black-and-white puds, don’t they?”

Luca didn’t know what pudding was, but Doran’s laugh was contagious. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“I guess the land’s like this where you grew up, eh?” Doran went on, slinging a crate onto the cart. “All hills and sea.”

Luca nodded. The pang of longing used to take his breath away; now it was just a dull ache below his breastbone, like a thumb pressed into a scar.

“Took me and Con a fair bit of adjusting to, I can tell you that,” said Doran. “Chesten’s flat as a cow’s arse.”

“Enough talking!” Hodge shouted over the bow. “Get to work, the pair of you!”

Once Hodge turned his back, Doran rolled his eyes at Luca.

“He’s been even more pleased with himself than usual since he grew that stupid goatee,” he said in undertone. “You think I should tell him that it looks like a catepillar crawled under his lip and died?”

“Oh, _don’t!_ ” said Luca, laughing despite himself. “You’ll get yourself whipped into next week.”

“Worth it,” said Doran with a wicked grin that reminded Luca so much of Asher that he had to look away.

They moved the last of the crates together. Luca was glad; they were far too heavy for him to lift on his own. Doran muttered something about not wanting Luca to break his skinny arms, but Luca suspected that Doran’s arms were hurting, too.

After they heaved the final crate into the cart, Doran flexed his back, moaning in satisfaction when the bones cracked.

“All I need now is a hot bath and a pretty girl to rub me down after,” he sighed. “Right, Mouse, let’s see about that luggage.”

Connell’s drawings had been packed away along with the tea tin and the box of shells and the collection of odds and ends that Doran had brought from Chesten and refused to part with. Absent their effects, the storage room felt bare and alien.

With a start, Luca realized that he would miss it here. He’d been safer in this room than anywhere else he’d been kept for years and years. Maybe ever.

“You ever wonder at how much shit free people have?” said Doran, surveying the pile of luggage with distaste. Seeing Luca’s expression, he laughed. “Oh, that’s scandalized you, has it? You are a proper little thing, Mouse.”

Privately, Luca had to admit that Master Balkas and Toby and Tybalt and Hodge did indeed have a lot of things. He and Doran made trip after trip from the storage room through the halls and up the stairs and over the deck and down the gangplank to the cart that weighed ever heavier on its wheels.

Particularly cumbersome were the great wood-and-leather trunks stamped with the Carlyle crest. These were Toby’s, and, as Luca discovered when he and Doran were hauling one up the stairs, they were full of books.

“Toby and his _bloody_ books,” Doran panted. “I told him to leave the stupid things at home, but what does he care, he’s not the one who has to haul them from Chesten to the back of the fucking beyond…”

It was all Luca could do not to drop his end of the case. Lady, all of these trunks were for books? Toby must have so many—more than Luca ever imagined existing in one place. He probably wouldn’t even notice if one went missing…

With a jolt, Luca realized what he’d just let himself think. He dug his wrist into the metal edge of the trunk until the flesh went red and purple.

 _That perverse imagination is going to get you killed, hole_.

No. Of course Luca would never touch a lord’s books. He ought to be flogged for even thinking about it.

By the time Luca and Doran were down to the last of the luggage, it was almost noon. The sun blistered behind a slow-moving bank of cloud; every now and then the haze broke, spilling down hot bright rays that made the wet ground breathe up steam.

The cold sweat on the back of Luca’s neck prickled exquisitely. He ached, but it was a good, clean ache, like practicing a new dance.

A great flutter arose overhead. Looking up, Luca saw the ripple of many wings across the sky.

“Shearwaters,” said Doran, shielding his eyes. “They leave their nests at summer’s end and fly south.”

“Where do they go?” asked Luca, entranced.

“Nobody knows for sure. Some folks say they fly all the way round the edge of the world. They’ll be back in spring with the sun in their feathers, ready to make chicks.”

Luca observed in himself a feeling that he couldn’t name. Only on closer examination did he realize, with a start of surprise, that it was happiness.

Back belowdecks, the mountain of luggage had dwindled to a pile. The prospect of being so close to the end of their task gave them both a second wind. Doran was telling Luca about the birds and animals they were likely to encounter as they marched overland when the door swung open.

Hodge stood in the threshold. He looked around the storage room with an expression of fastidiously mannered distaste.

“You’re not finished yet?” he drawled. “Making an easy afternoon of it, aren’t you?”

Luca could see Doran chewing a rejoinder between his back teeth. Before it could work loose, Hodge said, “Hector says you’re to go and make yourself useful in the study, Doran. Tybalt needs his desk emptied and packed away, and there’s the matter of his writing materials. I trust it won’t take you the better part of the day?”

“No, sir,” said Doran between his teeth.

He made to leave, then hesitated, his eyes flicking back to Luca. Hodge followed his gaze and sighed.

“I suppose it falls to me to babysit the boy. Don’t worry, I won’t let him distract the men with his…charms.”

Doran threw Luca a look of apology before closing the door behind him.

Hodge listened to Doran’s footsteps recede down the corridor before locking the door. Then he turned to Luca.

Luca knew what would happen next. When Hodge backed him against the wall and pushed his hands under his tunic, it was like they were moving through the steps of a dance that Luca had performed a thousand times.

Hodge pressed himself to Luca; he panted hot breath on his face. The point of his belt dug into Luca’s stomach. Below that, the outline of Hodge’s cock prodded him. It hardened as Hodge rubbed against him, groaning.

 _Look what you’ve done,_ Luca thought, and shivered as a wave of self-loathing rippled through him.

Hodge yanked the tunic and sweater over Luca’s head. Luca felt a jolt of anguish as they hit the floor. He’d never had such nice clothes, the kind that real people wore.

_You never should’ve been allowed clothes in the first place, hole. A slut like you can’t even keep them on._

Hodge turned Luca around and shoved him up against the wall. He ran his hand down Luca’s back, pausing to caress the brand at the base of his spine before moving lower.

“Gods, look at you,” Hodge murmured, squeezing Luca’s ass. “You don’t know what it’s done to me, having this perfect little ass just out of reach.” The squeeze became a slap. “Not out of reach anymore, are you?”

Luca bit back a gasp as Hodge sank his fingers deep into the stinging flesh.

“You giving any of this to the other slaves?” asked Hodge, as if inquiring about the weather.

Two weeks ago, Luca expected that Doran and Connell would fuck him at the first opportunity. Now the thought made his stomach turn.

“No, sir,” he whispered.

Hodge slapped him again.

“Really? That brute Doran hasn’t sampled the wares?”

“They haven’t touched me, sir.”

“That’s hard to believe. How could they resist?” He licked Luca’s neck. “Then again, not every man is bold enough to take what he desires.”

Luca heard the clink of a belt being undone. He smelled the thick, gamy odor of arousal. Distantly, with the part of his brain that still cared what happened to his body, he hoped that Hodge would use something. Slick, or even spit. There hadn’t been time for Luca to prepare himself today. It would be his own fault if he tore.

The important thing was that Doran and Connell not catch him limping after. He couldn’t let them find out. Not when they’d just started to treat him like a—

No. Stupid to hope they’d ever treat him like a friend.

Abruptly, Hodge yanked Luca around and shoved him to his knees. His trousers were undone; he had his cock in his hand. The wet tip smeared across Luca’s lips.

“Say you want it,” Hodge ordered.

“I want it,” said Luca. His voice was so small that he could barely hear himself.

Hodge snapped his hips forward. He found no resistance as he sank into the wet hole of Luca’s throat.

“ _Fuck,_ you can suck it, can’t you?” Hodge hissed. “Look at you, taking my cock. Take it all, whore.”

Luca took it. He took Hodge’s cock, and his insults, and finally his cum, a molten stream of it down the back of his battered throat.

As soon as the last aftershocks of his orgasm swelled and crested, Hodge yanked Luca to his feet.

“You liked that,” said Hodge, shaking him. “You wanted it. You said so yourself. You’re a teasing little slut, aren’t you? Yes, you are, and don’t you dare tell anyone otherwise.” He smiled nastily. “No, I don’t think you want to go telling tales. A boy like you against a man like me? Ha! Who would believe you? Nobody. Would they? Say it.”

Softly, Luca recited, “I’m a slut. I wanted it. Nobody would believe me.”

“Too right they wouldn’t. Anyway, nothing happened.” Hodge shook Luca again, hard enough to rattle his teeth. “ _Say it._ ”

“Nothing h-happened.”

“Good.”

Hodge released him. He stepped back, smoothing his hair.

“See that you get the rest of this luggage up to the deck. The company falls out in twenty minutes, and if Hector has you beaten for holding us up, you can hardly expect me to interfere on your behalf.”

Hodge departed, leaving Luca staring blankly after him.

Time passed. After a while, Luca registered pressure against his wrist. Looking down, he saw that he was twisting the bruised place hard enough to break the skin.

_Don’t hurt yourself, sweetheart._

With a stab of guilt, Luca let go. He knelt to gather his scattered clothes. The sweater was still warm from the sun.

More time passed. Luca couldn’t have said what snapped him back—a sound, maybe, the creak of floorboards overhead—but all at once he was in his body again. He realized that he’d been hugging the sweater to his chest and rocking back and forth with his face buried in its soft green wool.

 _Stop being such a baby_ , Luca told himself. Lady, he was acting like he’d never had his face fucked before.

Anyway, he had nothing to complain about. This was what happened to pleasure slaves who fell out of favor. They were easy prey. Luca had seen it happen at Highcourt, men going after the boys who’d lost the King’s interest. Really, he should be grateful that a man was bothering with him at all.

Besides, Hodge said that Luca wanted it. That must be true, because the man was always right. Luca wanted to be useful, didn’t he? This was how things like him were used.

Stupid. Stupid to mind.

Nothing happened.

Luca pulled on his clothes and tucked back the pieces of hair that had come loose from his braid. He loaded himself up with the last of the luggage.

It was good that he wasn’t sore anywhere that mattered.

_Nobody wants to hear a whore talk, anyway, hole. That’s not what your throat is for._

Luca cast a final look around the storage room. Empty, it seemed smaller somehow. Shabbier. Not a place that anyone real would ever bother to care about.

Luca made his way back through the belly of the ship. Fortunately the soldiers were too caught up in the frenzy of departure to do much more than hoot at him.

As Luca emerged onto the deck, a freezing spray of windswept rain lashed his legs. Men dashed up and down the gangplank, shouting at each other and being shouted at in turn. In the midst of it all, Master Balkas was leaning over Toby and bawling him out with the volume and fury of a drill sergeant.

“—snot-nosed little drama queen,” Master Balkas was bellowing as Luca approached. “If you were an enlisted man, I’d have you strung up and flogged. Thank the gods that your father went to his eternal reward before he could see how you turned out, because the shame would’ve killed him.”

Tony had gone violently red in the face. Luca could tell that he was struggling not to cry.

Master Balkas turned to see Luca. The big vein in his forehead throbbed—and that was all the warning Luca got before his master’s hand lashed out and caught him soundly on the ear.

The blow staggered him. He would’ve fallen if not for Connell grabbing his arm.

“And where the hell have you been?” Master Balkas roared.

“Sorry, Master, I—I’m sorry.”

This time Luca was ready to be hit. Master Balkas’s hand cracked across the other ear; the ship swung around him, lights exploding in his vision, but he kept his balance.

“I’ve put down dogs less useless,” Master Balkas growled. “The next time I catch you malingering, I’ll whip that fancy brand off your back and send you back to Highcourt in a packing crate. Understood?”

“Yes, Master.”

Master Balkas wheeled on Toby, who was in the process of trying to slink away.

“Don’t even think about it,” said Master Balkas. “You’re actually going to be held to a squire’s duty for once in your miserable life. Come on.”

Toby threw Connell a look of appeal, but Connell could only spread his hands. Master Balkas set off across the deck, roaring orders as he went. Toby trailed after him like a man being led to his own execution.

“The master’s in a peach of a mood, isn’t he?” Connell muttered, pulling the luggage from Luca’s shoulder and slinging it over his own. “What did take you so long, anyway?”

“I was just—malingering,” said Luca, dropping his eyes. “Like the master said.”

Connell frowned. He opened his mouth to say something when Hodge’s voice cut across the deck.

“Get a move on, you two!” he shouted. “If that cart isn’t packed in five minutes, you can be sure Hector will know who’s to blame.”

The crack of thunder swallowed Connell’s muttered curse.

It was going to be a long march to Redditch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm struggling with the organization of Luca and Robert's chapters: now that they're separated again, their timelines have necessarily fallen out of sync. The chapter that follows this one is Robert's POV and picks up almost immediately after his last chapter left off (though two weeks have passed in Luca's timeline). Hopefully things don't become too confusing?
> 
> On a far more important note, I hope this update finds you all well. This is a strange time, and mostly awful, but I do at least have the small spark of consolation that I've so many hours to fill with writing. Thank you so much for reading and commenting -- it makes me feel infinitely less alone.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the incredible @deripmaver, TGB now has a Discord!
> 
> https://discord.gg/vQ7JBNn
> 
> This is basically the best thing that has ever happened, up there with pizza and the invention of whump.

Lord Robert Argent III arrived at Absalom Prison in the late afternoon. He wore a suit of clothes far finer than any the guards had ever seen—so fine, in fact, that they neglected to notice the discolored patches where blood had been half-successfully scrubbed out of the fabric. Lord Argent’s face was sunk in lines of exhaustion and rough with stubble, but that was to be expected. As he explained to the guards, this inspection was a surprise to him as well.

Indeed, the ride to Absalom was made in such haste that one of the horses collapsed, injuring Lord Argent’s hand. Though the wound clearly caused Lord Argent some aggravation, he insisted on interviewing the Warden before he would allow himself to be seen to by the prison doctors.

A minor sensation was caused by Lord Argent’s bodyguard, a barbarian who towered above even Lord Argent himself. He wore a valet’s uniform three sizes too small; his muscles gapped the seams. But of course it was to be expected that Lord Argent would dress his slave to show off his brutal frame.

Certainly, the guards agreed, one would be mad to challenge a man guarded by such a beast.

Robert had a headache. He knew that it wasn’t actually his head that hurt, but his hand—relentlessly, intolerably, driving him to the edge of madness. But it was easier to curse his head, which was, after all, the seat of all his terrible ideas.

In the abstract, storming Absalom with a ragtag company of eighty men had seemed like an eminently attainable prospect. Now, flanked on all sides by heavily armed guardsman who ushered them up the stairs to the Warden’s study, Robert had ample cause to revisit that assessment.

He was deeply, selfishly grateful that Ged had insisted on accompanying him. Indeed, Ged took his promise of protection like a mendicant’s oath. He wore Alfred’s absurdly undersized uniform as if it were a suit of armor. After side-eying the broadsword strapped across Ged’s black valet’s tails, the guards kept a wide berth.

That was probably for the best. Robert was on a hair trigger, and he could tell Ged was as well. Ged’s scowl might send the guards shrinking, but Robert knew that he was as scared as—well, as scared as Robert was himself.

 _Fear’s a gift, my lad_ , Harrow reminded him. _Sharpens the brain._

Robert didn’t feel sharp. He felt like the waterlogged streamers in the gutters after Bacchanal, colors bleeding, paper dissolving slowly into paste. He ached, viscerally, for a cigarette. There was one left in his case, slightly crushed from the drama of the past few days but still smokable. He’d promised it to himself once all this was over—either in celebration of their victory or as a doomed man’s final consolation on the gallows steps. Robert put even odds on either outcome.

They came at last to the top of the winding stairs. There was a broad door, weatherbeaten and obviously seige-proof. One of the guards lifted the heavy knocker and let it fall.

“Come!” shouted a voice from the other side.

The Warden’s office had the look of having been hastily put to rights. The Warden himself was an unremarkable man, on the short side, with a flicker of something feral in his piglike eyes. He had a soldier’s rigid carriage; his bow was perfunctory, even reluctant, the stiff half-bend of a man unused to humbling himself.

The Warden straightened before Robert could acknowledge him. He stuck out a calloused hand, staring Robert dead in the eye as if daring him to shake it.

Of course lords never shook hands with commoners. Grandfather would’ve had the man brought up on charges. This was a power play: the Warden wanted to show a trumped-up lordling that his title meant nothing here.

Robert had no patience for games. He grasped the Warden’s wrist with his left hand and pulled him to, forcing him to turn his hand up. Robert clasped it palm-down, like a priest greeting a supplicant.

The Warden had that unfortunate combination of a ruddy complexion and thinning ginger hair. When he flushed with rage, it looked as though a rash was breaking out across his scalp. For a moment, Robert thought the man might take a swing at him.

But the Warden wrestled his temper under control. He pulled his hand away and gestured to the chair before his desk. Its seat still bore the imprint of the stack of papers that had been cleared away not long ago.

“So,” said the Warden, settling behind his desk, “to what do we owe this unexpected visit, my lord?”

As he spoke, a guard entered carrying a tea-tray that had clearly been rescued from some forgotten corner of the mess. Silently, Ged removed the tray from the guard’s fumbling hands. He poured a stream of tea into a cup patterned with chintz and knelt to serve it to Robert. His face was impassive; he might have been any of the faceless slaves at Highcourt.

“The Grand Chancellor received a report that Absalom is dangerously understaffed,” Robert explained, taking the teacup. “Questions were raised concerning—how shall I say?—the fitness of current command.”

“If His Excellency received such a report, I promise you, my lord, it’s a work of fiction,” said the Warden stiffly.

“Nevertheless,” said Robert, taking a sip of tea. The leaves were stale; it was an exercise of will not to spit it back out. “My grandfather determined that the matter warranted investigation.”

At the words _my grandfather,_ the Warden’s lips thinned. His blunt fingers contracted, clawlike, on the surface of his desk.

“Of course the Grand Chancellor must be obeyed in all things,” the Warden muttered. “What sort of investigation did His Excellency have in mind?”

Robert forced himself to take a sip of tea before answering. Grandfather would enjoy making this upstart wait.

“The Grand Chancellor’s first directive was that I marshal the company for a headcount,” said Robert, settling the cup back on its saucer with a clink.

A second ruddy wave chased the first across the Warden’s face. He clenched his jaw, and then, with grim deliberation, released it.

“The entire company,” he repeated tonelessly.

“Of course,” said Robert, wiping his fingertips on the handkerchief proferred by Ged. “How else am I to verify the report?”

The Warden took a steadying breath before he spoke.

“My lord. Surely the Grand Chancellor is aware that fully a third of my men were conscripted by General Howland, and that General Sudberry took fifty more. My Chief Bailiff died at Angarrick. I’ve been writing to Lyonesse for reinforcements, but—”

He broke off, working his jaw as if to grind a stubborn piece of gristle.

“But?” Robert prompted.

“The Royal Council has not seen fit to grant my request,” the Warden ground out. No doubt this was a more diplomatic conclusion than the one he’d originally intended.

“So you _are_ understaffed,” said Robert.

The Warden’s eyes flicked to the door. It was open; the guards outside stood at parade rest. Their faces were blank, but there was something in their stillness that indicated keen attention.

“A man with a strong mind, a clean body, and a sense of his duty is worth fifty wastrels,” said the Warden, louder than was strictly necessary to be heard by Robert alone. “A Warden with well-disciplined company is _never_ understaffed.”

“Then I’m sure that marshalling the company will prove no harship,” said Robert.

The Warden gave him a thin, bloodless smile.

“I am, of course, my lord’s servant in all things.”

There was something in the man’s tone that Robert did not like.

“Good,” he said. “The men are to present themselves in the courtyard in parade dress. No weapons, obviously.”

“No weapons?” the Warden echoed, frowning.

“I suppose they don’t train enlisted men in etiquette,” said Robert, inflecting his voice with Grandfather’s steel. “It would be the height of vulgarity for common soldiers to appear armed before a member of the royal family.”

“Ah,” said the Warden. “Of course. That wouldn’t do at all.”

He stood abruptly and rapped on the desk. The guards snapped to attention and marched into the office.

“Merton, Fergus, you’ll have the honor of giving His Lordship a tour of the Belfry,” ordered the Warden. “Gersham, Denholm, Keene, alert the Deputies on shift of my lord’s command, then summon them to my office at once.”

If the Warden had intended to make a show of his authority, he certainly succeeded. Three of the guards saluted crisply before departing. The remaining two bowed to Robert—deeply, as befitted his rank—while ignoring Ged, who had risen silently to his feet. Though they wore the stripes of Senior Enlisted, their uniforms were ill-fitting, obviously hand-me-downs. Robert guessed them for enlisted men who’d been hastily promoted—perhaps after one of the Generals poached their predecessors for cannon fodder.

“If you’ll follow me, m’lord,” said Merton.

He spoke formally, trying to hide his provincial accent, but without the deep unwelcome Robert had been expecting. Both men wore deep circles under their eyes. Perhaps they were simply too tired to resent Robert’s intrusion as the Warden so clearly did.

As Robert followed the guards back down the winding flight of stairs, he took a moment to appreciate the accuracy of Digby and Coogan’s map. The time he took committing it to memory was well-spent. The Warden’s office was at the top of the stout northwest tower called the Belfry, while the floors below were given over to the practical considerations of running a prison: the guards’ dormitory, the infirmary, the mess, the kitchens, the slaves’ quarters, and, of course, the armory.

“If you look at this wall here, m’lord, you’ll note the age of the stone,” said Merton. His tone still held a note of caution, but had lost some of its stiffness. “We’re in the oldest part of the keep. All the rest was built up round it, like. But this tower here, it was Agnar Foxtail’s stronghold back in the day.”

“Agnar Foxtail?” said Robert, looking at him in surprise. “I never knew the barbarians had garrisons this close to Lyonesse.”

Merton’s eyes were twitching with the effort of not looking at Ged.

“This was as far as the bloody bastards got, m’lord,” he sniffed. Then, realizing he’d said, he went pale. “Oh, _f_ —I mean, forgive me, m’lord, forgive me, please. I shouldn’t be using coarse language in front of a man like yourself.”

“How fortunate that I suffer occasional deafness,” said Robert. “I heard nothing but the crashing of the waves on the cliff below.”

“Yes, m’lord,” said Merton, relieved. “Thank you, m’lord. Actually, m’lord, if you’d like to take in the view, there’s a balcony round this next bend here. Nothing fancy, not as you’re used to in Lyonesse, but through a spyglass, on a fine day like this, you can see for miles.”

In truth, the balcony was little more than a narrow ledge of moss-covered stone half-crumbling into the cliff below. It was a good thing Robert’s days of breaking and entering had cured his fear of heights, or vertigo would’ve brought him to his knees. Merton, meanwhile, was as fleet-footed as a goat.

“This used to be an archer’s parapet, m’lord,” said Merton, shouting to be heard over the moan of the wind. “Ah, see there? A ship!”

Robert squinted through his stinging eyes in the direction Merton was pointing. He could just make out the black shape moving against the horizon.

“One of ours,” said Merton decidedly. Robert got the impression that he spent a lot of time watching ships from this ledge. “Would you like to borrow my spyglass, m’lord?”

Robert took the weathered brass cylinder and peered through. As he adjusted the dial, the image resolved with startling clarity. A man o’war filled the lens, its sails snapping smartly against the wind. Robert could just make out the letters emblazoned on its side.

“The Makepeace,” he read. “That’s General Balkas’s ship, isn’t it?”

Fergus had been hovering silently in the doorway, eyeing the short distance between Robert and the parapet’s edge with a doomed expression. Now his face lit up.

“Ah, m’lord!” he said. “That’s never The Makepeace? Only my brother’s on that ship, he’s an ensign in Balkas’s company, I’ve not seen him for—”

Fergus cut himself off. Merton had stepped on his foot.

“Here, take a look,” said Robert, extending the spyglass. “It’s a clear day. Perhaps you’ll catch a glimpse of your brother on deck.”

Fergus took the spyglass with a deep bow, not trying to hide his eagerness. As he scanned the water, Robert and Merton pressed themselves against the salt-lashed tower wall to escape the bite of the wind.

“That’s a beautiful instrument,” said Robert, nodding at the spyglass. “And very old. I can tell you’ve taken care of it.”

It was clear that this was the best compliment he could’ve given Merton. The man swelled in his oversized uniform.

“Thank you, m’lord. It was my grandfather’s.”

The memory came, unbidden, of the taste of champagne and Grandfather clapping Robert on the back. _I see much of myself in you_.

Robert touched his vest pocket. When his fingertips brushed the familiar shape of his signet ring, he had to swallow a surge of laughter that was equal parts bitterness and relief.

Back inside the keep, Robert rubbed his windchapped left hand against the silk interior of his coat. The right dangled uselessly at his side. At least the cold had gone a little ways towards numbing it. Still, it throbbed through the bandages with its own dark heartbeat. He could feel the pulse in his throat.

_Focus._

Turning to Merton and Fergus, Robert saw that they were engaged in a hushed, urgent conversation. Feeling Robert’s eyes on them, they fell silent.

Fergus bowed and said, “Um, begging your pardon, and with your permission, m’lord, I’ll just be excusing myself a moment.”

As he spoke, he kicked open the dormitory door, backed through, and let it swing shut behind him. Robert heard the clink of a lock.

“If you’ll follow me, m’lord,” said Merton, entirely too innocent, “the mess is just two flights down.”

Robert knew for a fact that the guards’ dormitory was on this floor, through the door that Fergus has just locked. The infirmary was on the level below. Merton planned to bypass both. But why?

“Shouldn’t we wait for Fergus to return?” said Robert. He itched for his sword.

“Ah—begging your pardon, m’lord, but Fergus has, um, important business to see to.”

“More important than giving the Grand Chancellor’s heir a tour of the keep?” said Robert, arching a brow. When Merton went pale but didn’t reply, he added, more gently, “You know, a surprise inspection rather loses the element of surprise if Fergus warns everyone I’m coming.”

“Yes, m’lord,” said Merton, wringing his hands. “Begging your pardon, m’lord. Only if I let you see the dormitories, the Warden will have my balls— _fuck_ —I mean _fudge_ —I mean my head, m’lord. He’d have my head. And my stripes,” he added, touching the bars embroidered onto the shoulder of his uniform as if they were the face of his beloved.

“Has discipline in the dormitories really broken down so badly?” asked Robert.

“No, m’lord, it’s not that, it’s…”

Merton broke off, face set in lines of misery.

“Show me,” said Robert.

It was a request, but Merton took it as an order. He unlocked the door and pushed it open as though his execution lay on the other side.

Robert had braced himself for chaos. What he saw was far stranger. Row after row of empty bunkbeds lined a room the size of a boat shed.

But no—on second glance, not all were empty. A little more than a dozen guards occupied the beds against the near wall. All had the gray skin and hunched postures of men clinging to the outermost edge of exhaustion. At least half bore evidence of recent violence: black eyes, split lips, slings and bloodied bandages.

Robert’s gaze was drawn to a boy who lay shivering on a bunk, body contorted, arms wrapped around himself. His eyes were squeezed shut, breath coming wet and ragged. Robert couldn’t tell if he was conscious.

“The Warden’ll have all our hides if the lord sees the company like this,” Fergus was saying, a note of pleading in his voice. Hearing the door, he turned to see Robert and Merton. His eyes went wide. “Lord Argent. I can explain. The rest of the guards are on the day shift, see.”

“So these men are the night shift?” asked Robert.

At the words _night shift,_ the guards broke into rueful laughter. One pushed himself to his feet and managed an awkward bow.

“Begging your pardon for speaking out of turn, m’lord, but there en’t night shifts and day shifts no more. Just one long stay-on-your-feet-’til-you-collapse shift.”

“Shut your mouth, Riggs,” Fergus hissed. He would’ve said more, but Robert held up his good hand.

“I take it that you collapsed, then?” Robert said.

A few of the guards nodded. Riggs set his jaw at Fergus and said, “If you pass out, or start talking gibberish, or can’t hold a baton, you’re dismissed for three hours of shuteye. Then it’s back on your feet. M’lord,” he added, seeing Merton’s murderous expression.

The boy on the bed let out a whimper of pain. Without his conscious direction, Robert’s feet carried him across the room. He knelt beside the boy and pressed a palm to his forehead. The sweat-damp skin radiated fever. With his pinched face and pursed lips, he could’ve been Asher in the throes of a nightmare.

“What’s his name?” Robert asked, gently uncurling the boy’s arm from his belly. There was a bloodsoaked dressing beneath, faintly stinking.

“Billy, m’lord,” said Merton. “Billy Myles.”

Slowly, careful not to jostle him, Robert peeled back the corner of the bandage. The reek of infection sent him back on his heels.

“This boy needs a doctor,” he said, trying to keep his voice level. “Why isn’t he in the infirmary?”

Merton hesitated, as if racking his brain for a plausible excuse. Then he gave up and admitted, “Not enough beds, m’lord.”

“Not enough doctors, either,” Riggs muttered. “And they en’t wasting medical supplies on enlisted men, m’lord, I’ll tell you that.”

“Riggs, by all the stars, I will end you,” said Fergus through his teeth.

“When I arrived, the men at the gate said that I could be seen by a doctor immediately,” said Robert, frowning.

“Well, of course, m’lord,” said Merton helplessly. “For you…”

For a lord, he meant. For the Grand Chancellor’s heir. Not for a peasant, a common soldier, the son of no one important.

“This boy wants care far more urgently than I do,” said Robert, standing. “We’ll need a stretcher to move him. Here, strip those bedsheets. And we’re going to need two long pieces of wood, whatever’s on hand, and a length of rope. Where’s Ged? My bodyguard, I mean,” he corrected himself when Merton and Fergus looked at him blankly.

Ged had been hovering in the hallway. Now he stepped into the room, ducking to clear the doorway.

“Ged, d’you know how to lash together a stretcher?” Robert asked. Seeing his confusion, Robert fumbled for the words in Keld. “Like a—a cot, to carry the wounded boy.”

“Oh, a _sìbör,_ ” said Ged, brow smoothing. “Yeah, of course. If they let me near him.”

Robert turned to see the guards regarding at Ged with the particular expression of mingled hostility and fear that seemed to greet him at every turn. Robert was becoming depressingly familiar with it.

“Oh, fields of hell, he’s not going to crack your skulls open or whatever other nonsense you’ve heard,” Robert snapped. “Ged’s the only one here strong enough to move Billy without hurting him.” Then, when no one moved, “For gods’ sakes, he knows what he’s doing. _Help him._ ”

Riggs was the first to move. He yanked one of the other guards off his cot and started stripping the bedsheets.

It was like the room had released its breath. The other men sprang into action. As Ged demonstrated how to assemble the stretcher, Robert pulled Merton aside.

“Half these men look like they’ve survived a riot,” he said without preamble.

“No, m’lord, not a riot,” said Merton weakly. “Just a—a skirmish, that’s all.”

“A skirmish?” said Robert, surveying the room of broken men. “Merton.”

“Please, m’lord,” Merton whispered. “The Warden’ll have me shipped to the border.”

“I won’t let that happen,” said Robert with what he hoped was Grandfather’s cool authority. “Tell me what happened.”

Merton hesitated only a moment before saying bitterly, “Only the usual, m’lord. The Warden cut the prisoners’ rations again. He says that’s what they do in the Territories when the barbarians get agitated—starve ’em quiet, he says. But we all know that there’s just not enough food. The shipments from the Midlands—well, I don’t know what’s happening, but they’re not making it to Edgecliffe, not for months. The military’s diverting them, maybe, or bandits, but it’s been nothing but hard tack and stale water, and the prisoners…”

“They’re hungry,” said Robert, filling in the blanks. “They’re desperate, and they outnumber you.”

“The Warden’s doing the best he can, m’lord,” said Merton, sounding as though he didn’t believe a word. “He’s got to keep order, see. And if he says the punishments are working, and the executions, and—well, it’s not my place to question my commanding officer.”

“What happens to prisoners when they’re ill or injured?” Robert asked, already knowing the answer. “Are _they_ taken to the infirmary?”

Merton shook his head.

“Doctors used to treat them in the cells, but now…”

“Now they’re just left to die,” Robert finished.

Merton rubbed a hand over his forehead. He looked as disgusted with the world as Robert felt himself.

“The Warden’ll have my stripes for telling you,” he muttered.

“That won’t happen, Merton, I promise you,” Robert said. Then, in a low voice, he asked, “Do you know why the military hasn’t sent reinforcements?”

Merton glanced at the guards and rubbed his hand over his mouth. The gesture was intended to look casual, but Robert knew that he didn’t want the others to read his lips.

“But m’lord, surely you must know,” Merton murmured. “There aren’t any reinforcements left to send.”

It took all of Robert’s Highcourt training to keep the shock from his face. He’d spent the better part of a year at Grandfather’s side, but in all that time, no one had given the least indication that the war wasn’t going swimmingly—least of all Grandfather himself. Indeed, the general mood at Highcourt was one of anticipation. Everyone agreed that Kenever would surrender any day.

Hell, even Kemp’s people had always been more grimly determined than actually optimistic. Robert had gotten the impression that every inch of ground gained at the border was hard-won and fiercely defended. Then again, the operation at The Thorn was civilian, not military. For the most part, they were bound together by idealism rather than a keen grasp on the strategies of war. Their concerns were local: gathering intelligence, distributing propoganda, winning converts to the cause.

That is, until someone had the bright idea to assassinate the King.

But perhaps Absalom was just a microcosm of Ademar’s whole military infrastructure. If troops really were that thin on the ground, then it made sense that the Generals would consolidate their forces in order to throw everything they had at Kenever—leaving holes at the edges of their defense just wide enough for the enemy to slip through.

Ademar might be winning this war, but it was costing him more dearly than Robert could have imagined.

“M’lord?”

Robert realized that he was scowling into space. Fortunately Fergus appeared, saving Robert from having to come up with a plausible excuse for his ignorance.

“We’ve got Billy on the stretcher like you ordered, m’lord,” said Fergus. “And begging your pardon, m’lord, but we ought to get you to the infirmary, too. You’ve bled through your bandage.”

Robert looked down to see a fresh bloom of red on the guaze wrapped around his ruined hand. Somehow seeing it brought the pain into sharper clarity, like turning the lens on Merton’s spyglass. He imagined that he could feel the severed end of every vein bleeding into his bones.

Robert grit his teeth. There was no way he could allow his hand to be examined, not with the brand damning him a traitor. But if he could bluster his way into another shot of painkiller…

Gods, what he’d do for a moment of relief. _Anything,_ Robert thought, and then of Hugo. The relief that smoothed his tortured features when Robert promised him his death. As if pain was the only thing keeping him bound to life, like hooks through flesh.

 _Focus_.

Being moved onto the stretcher had dragged Billy Myles back to consciousness. He’d pushed himself up on one elbow and was staring groggily at Robert.

“That’s a Council Lord’s heir,” said Riggs, poking his arm. “You ought to be paying your respects, my lad.”

Billy looked back at Robert, wide-eyed. He tried to say something, but his voice broke, from pain or puberty Robert didn’t know.

“No need for that,” Robert assured him. He reached into his jacket and pulled out his cigarette case. “I know that your Warden runs a tight ship where vice is concerned, but having given the matter my full consideration, I’ve come to the conclusion that you deserve a cigarette.”

“Ah, m’lord, if I’d’ve known you had to take a shiv across the ribs to smoke in the keep, I would’ve jumped in front of the knife myself,” said Riggs earnestly.

The other men broke into laughter. An exhausted smile crept over Billy’s lips. With excruciating effort, he labored to raise his hand for the cigarette. Robert caught Billy’s wrist, tucked the cigarette between his fingers, and guided it to his mouth. He tried not to think of another hand that he’d once held like this, small enough that he’d easily enclosed it.

“I hope you won’t report me for contributing to the delinquency of youth,” said Robert, igniting the cigarette with his silver lighter. For a moment, the flame illuminated the Argent crest on its side.

“But who would dare report Lord Robert Argent of Lightcliffe Hall?”

Robert fought the urge to snatch his sword and whip around. He flipped the lighter closed and tucked it back into his vest before he turned, as if he had all the time in the world.

In the doorway stood a man in the red and black of the Regiment. The gold braid of an officer flashed on his chest. He was flanked by Watchmen—five, by Robert’s count, though for a moment they seemed to stretch out behind him in the hundreds, like ranks of soldiers at a military parade.

“What an honor it is to address His Excellency’s grandson,” said the officer with a bow as polished as his boots. “Major Davies of His Majesty’s Regiment. We were introduced at Lady Cumberland’s spring gala—but no, of course you wouldn’t remember.”

As the man spoke, Robert watched his wig move up and down with the exaggerated contortions of his face. Funny how the mind focused on such trivial details. Perhaps Hugo had the same experience when the Watch arrived at his door.

“What a stroke of luck, running into each other like this,” Major Davies went on. “I was just dispatched to find you. The Warden requests your presence in his office.”

“We were just in his office,” said Robert, letting his good hand settle naturally on the hilt of his sword. “When did you arrive?”

“Shortly after you, my lord, and from the same point of origin. How quickly the news travels from Highcourt! Why, by the time we departed, I daresay there wasn’t a soul left in Lyonesse who didn’t know your name.”

Robert was tired of these games. He met Major Davies’ grin with a level gaze.

“Then they must also know my crime,” he said.

“Is that a confession?” said Major Davies, his grin widening. “I was told that not even His Majesty’s interrogator was able to extract one.”

“Oh, I’m terribly stubborn,” said Robert. He could feel the steel thrumming in his fingers. “And by all means, you’re welcome to continue the interrogator’s work. But this boy’s name is Billy Myles, and he’s going to die if he doesn’t see a doctor.”

Major Davies seemed to notice Billy for the first time. He looked at him with bright curiosity, as if he were a farm animal that someone had brought inside.

“I rather think he’s going to die either way, don’t you?” Major Davies said.

Robert drew his sword.

Everything happened very quickly after that.

The Watchmen sprang forward. Ged was closer to the door; his broadsword cut an arc. Steel clanged. Robert’s sword was in his hand. He brought it up to parry the Watchman who lunged at him.

With so many opponents, Robert couldn’t afford to waste time. He caught the flat of the Watchman’s sword under his arm, laid the edge of his own sword on the man’s wrist, and spun out. The agonizing pressure on the bones of his forearm forced the Watchman to release his grip. Robert let the sword fall before cracking the Watchman on the side of the skull with the flat of his blade—hard enough to drop, but not to kill. He went down. Robert was already turning to meet the next sword that rose against him.

On the periphery, he registered that Ged had dispatched two of the Watchmen. One sat groaning against the wall, his ear a bloody mess; the other lay unmoving on his stomach.

In silent tandem, Robert and Ged tightened the circle around the last two Watchmen, forcing them to back into each other.

It was true what Harrow had told Robbie all those years ago. You knew you had a man against the ropes when you saw the whites of his eyes.

A scream rent the air. The sound of a boy in pain.

Against all his instincts, all his training, Robert’s eyes were drawn away from his opponent.

Major Davies was standing over Billy. He had his boot on Billy’s wound.

“Leave him out of this,” Robert snarled, starting forward.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Major Davies chided, grinding his boot down. “His stomach is like soft ice. It wouldn’t take much to send my boot straight through.”

Billy made an animal noise. His eyes were glassy, unseeing.

“Robert!” Ged shouted. A warning.

Robert turned just in time to block the Watchman’s thrust. The strike was sloppy, throwing them both off-balance. The Watchman stumbled; the flat of his blade smacked against Robert’s ruined hand.

Lights burst behind his eyes. Robert barely registered dropping his sword. He didn’t even know he’d fallen until his knees cracked against stone.

Cold steel kissed his Adam’s apple. The edge of the Watchman’s blade, turned against his throat.

“I have to admit, I’m disappointed,” said Major Davies. “Word had it that Robert Argent was a legend with the sword. I never thought I’d see you defeated by a misstrike.”

“You’ve caught me on an off day,” said Robert. “Why don’t we pick this up again tomorrow? I’ll clear my schedule.”

“At least you still have your sense of humor,” said Major Davies, chuckling. To the Watchman, he said, “Get his lordship on his feet. And for pity’s sake, disarm that barbarian before it goes rabid. I don’t care for that look it’s giving me.”

A firm grip on his arm hauled Robert upright. He blinked to clear his vision. The guards had retreated to the other side of the room when the fighting started; now they gaped at him like spectators at a hanging. Merton was looking back and forth between Robert and Major Davies with an expression of appeal, as if he hoped that at any moment one of them might laugh and say that this was all just a misunderstanding.

“I would have all of you brought up on charges for letting a traitor give you the runaround,” said Major Davies to the guards, “but I understand that even your Warden was fooled. Apparently this snake is as cunning as he is treacherous.”

“I’ve always seen myself as more of a fox,” said Robert, thinking of Adrian. “Or maybe a roach. I appear to be remarkably hard to kill.”

Major Davies’s lip curled.

“We’ll see about that,” he muttered. To the Watchmen, he said, “Get them moving. The Warden’s eager for a second interview.”

The Watchman holding Robert’s arm looked at his injured fellows strewn across the dormitory.

“What about—”

“Oh, just leave them,” Major Davies snapped. “We have thirty soldiers unloading in the courtyard.” Seeing Robert’s expression, he chuckled. “You didn’t think the Generals would leave Absalom undefended with Tam Tregeryth in its hold, did you?”

Perhaps Robert should have saved that cigarette for the gallows after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic does not endorse giving cigarettes to children with massive internal injuries.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went back and forth about posting this chapter in light of current events, but ultimately decided (with the support of the wonderful Discord Brain Trust) that it was better to post with heavy warnings than wait. 
> 
> This is the prison break chapter. It contains violence, death, voluntary euthanasia (not of any major characters), physical and psychological trauma, and the aftermath of torture, as well as references to institutionalized violence. If any of these are sensitive themes for you personally, especially right now, please take your emotional temperature before you read. 
> 
> Also, please know that this will be the most intense chapter for a while. I promise that sunlight will soon break through these clouds.

For all the Warden hated Robert, his mood was unimproved by his arrest. When Robert and Ged were marched into the Warden’s office, he glowered at them from behind his desk—which he was then forced to vacate, muscle jumping in his jaw, when Major Davies cleared his throat. The Major sat in the Warden’s chair, flicking out the tails of his uniform jacket.

“Making himself right at home, isn’t he?” said Robert to the Warden.

The Warden went so red he looked about to combust, but said nothing.

Robert was shoved down into the chair in front of the Warden’s desk. The teacup was still perched on the corner; he went to take it only to have a baleful-looking man in a lieutenant’s uniform slap his hand away.

“No tea for traitors,” the man snapped.

“I’m no traitor.”

“No?” said Major Davies. “What else would you call a man who planned to kill the King?”

“A realist,” said Robert. “We never wanted to betray Solas. We’re trying to save it.”

Merton and Fergus stood at attention against the wall. As Robert spoke, Fergus shifted, trying to catch Merton’s eye. Merton stared straight ahead. Robert couldn’t tell whether he was furious or on the verge of tears.

“So you sympathizers set out to save Solas by starting a war,” Davies snorted. “Typical soft-headed nonsense. I can stretch my mind to understand why the unwashed hordes might throw their lot in with Kenever—but _you,_ Argent? My gods, you had everything.”

“Not everything,” said Robert, thinking of blue eyes and a soft voice whispering his name like a prayer. “Nothing I wasn’t willing to lose.”

“Or steal,” the lieutenant muttered. Seeing Robert’s blank expression, he added pointedly, “I’m Lieutenant Arkwright.”

“I’m sorry, it’s been a long day,” said Robert. “Is that name supposed to ring a bell?”

White and purple blotches rose on Arkwright’s face.

“You poached my Tuesday appointment with the Golden Bird!” he shouted.

The image came to Robert of Boq crossing a name out of his appointment book. _This patron looks expendable._

“Good news,” said Robert brightly. “I’ve checked my calendar, and it looks like I won’t be making it to the Harlequin this Tuesday. Would you like your appointment back?”

“The damned boy’s in His Majesty’s service now, _as you well know_ ,” Arkwright snapped. He grabbed Robert’s right wrist, sending a jolt down his forearm. “I can’t wait to see what else the interrogator has in store for your hands. Why don’t we peel away these bandages while you explain how you and your barbarian slipped the caravan?”

Robert grit his teeth against the gibbering noise that tried to crawl up his throat.

 _Focus_.

Arkwright thought that Robert and Ged had escaped from the caravan. Of course; that was the logical conclusion. The Watch couldn’t know that some of Kemp’s agents had survived the raid, let alone infiltrated Absalom itself. That meant they didn’t know that the caravans had been taken over. They had no idea that the others were coming.

The plan could still work.

“It isn’t a particularly interesting story,” said Robert, struggling to keep his tone even as Arkwright unwound the bandage. “There were bandits in the woods. The guards were distracted. I slicked my hands with blood and slipped the cuffs. The barbarian was chained to me, so I thought I might as well bring him along for muscle. Waste not, want not, as my dear grandfather always says.”

“And you decided to set your compass for Absalom,” said Davies. “Straight into the mouth of the dragon, as it were.”

“Exactly,” Robert gasped. “It’s the l-last place anyone would expect. I thought I’d— _ah—_ throw my weight around, bully the Warden, talk my way into a proper carriage and some money for the road. I didn’t count on half the bloody Watch showing up—oh, fields of fucking _hell_ —”

“Yes, your timing was almost comically bad,” said Davies mildly. “Let him catch his breath, Arkwright. The interrogator does want him to last.”

Arkwright was bending Robert’s fingers back from his palm and watching in fascination as oozed from the edges of the bandage. He made a sour face, but dropped Robert’s hand.

Robert fell back in his chair, panting. Whiteness shimmered at the edges of his vision.

Gods, he couldn’t take much more of this. He’d known more of pain in the last four days than in the last twenty-one years combined.

Fuck the plan. If Arkwright tried to touch his hand again, Robert was going to break his nose and push the shattered bone into his brain.

A clatter arose from the courtyard. Robert heard the grate of the gate opening; the clank of hooves and wheels on cobblestone. There were the ordinary noises of guards greeting new arrivals—and then a shout of panic.

 _The caravans,_ Robert thought. Relief dizzied him.

The Warden covered the distance to the window in three strides. Whatever he saw made him curse. He turned to the guards at attention against the far wall and barked a series of orders. They sprinted from the room. Robert heard their footsteps pounding down the stairs, and more shouting from within the keep.

“What in Melita’s name is going on?” demanded Davies.

Instead of answering, the Warden turned to glare at Robert. “So,” he said through gritted teeth, “I see that you have friends.”

“I resent your surprise,” said Robert. “Some people find me very charming.”

The Warden looked at Davies. “With your permission, Major?”

“By all means,” said Davies, waving his hand.

At least the Warden was considerate enough to hit Robert with an open palm. Still, he had the strength of a younger man. Robert’s cheek went numb before flooding with pain.

“Nicely done, Warden,” said Davies, pleased. “I’ve wanted to do that since Lady Cumberland’s gala. Now, go deal with these interlopers while Arkwright and I continue our little chat with the former Lord Argent. I’m sure he has so much to tell us about these friends of his.”

The slap had cut Robert’s lip on the sharp edge of a tooth. He spat blood at the Warden’s feet.

“Even if you win, you’ve still lost Absalom,” Robert said, meeting the Warden’s furious eyes. “The Council sent Davies to take over. Because that’s what lords do, Warden. They take and take until there’s nothing left for Solas to give—”

This time the Warden hit with a closed fist. Robert was expecting it; he angled his jaw to take the blow. Still, it snapped his head to the side and rocked him back in the chair. The office ceiling wheeled over him. For a moment, he let himself appreciate how nice it would be to pass out and not wake up for quite some time.

“That’s enough,” said Davies. His voice had cooled a few degrees. “Warden, you’re dismissed.”

The Warden gave Davies a long look, flexing his hand. Then he turned on his heel and stalked out.

Robert spat again, this time at Arkwright’s boots.

“The interrogator couldn’t break me,” he said, refusing to let his voice waver. “I’m not sure why you think you’ll succeed where he failed.”

“Ah, well, he’s loosened you up for us,” said Arkwright, reaching for Robert’s hand.

Robert acted without having to think. He drew back his knee and slammed his boot-heel into Arkwright’s crotch. The man fell to his knees, cursing. Before he could recover, Robert smashed the teapot over his head. Arkwright crumpled unconscious to the floor.

Robert didn’t stop moving. He ducked down, driving his shoulder into the desk to flip it over. The edge hit Davies in the stomach, knocking the wind from him before pinning him to the wall. Robert drove his full weight into the desk, not letting Davies catch his breath. Fear of pain had given him a madman’s strength. He had the thought, half-wild, that he might drive the desk through Davies and into the wall.

“My lord!” Fergus shouted.

Robert risked a glance over his shoulder. Merton had drawn his sword and backed Ged into a corner. Fergus’s sword was in his hand, but he was rocking back and forth on his heels, writ through with indecision. He cast Robert a look of pleading.

“I see we arrived at an interesting moment,” someone drawled.

Riggs stood in the doorway, with Hal Turner and Digby and Coogan behind him. All their swords were drawn and bloodied. Riggs wore the same amiable expression as in the dormitory, but it was sharper now, and far subtler.

Robert had a flash of recognition. He’d seen Riggs before, that first night at The Thorn. He’d been wearing an earring; the shopgirls had called him by a different name.

Davies made a gurgling noise. Realizing that the man’s lips had gone blue, Robert let go of the desk. Davies slid down the wall, clutching at his ribs. He stared at Robert with mute hatred.

“I don’t remember this being part of the plan,” said Hal Turner, eyeing Arkwright’s limp form.

“Tell him the plan was stupid,” muttered Ged in Keld. Merton’s sword was still at his throat, though the blade had begun to shake as its bearer looked back and forth between Robert and the guardsmen with an expression of sheer overwhelm.

“Merton, you’re a good soldier, but you’re outnumbered and you know it,” said Robert. “There’s not a man in this room who would judge you for laying down arms now.”

“The gods would judge me,” said Merton through clenched teeth. “I swore an oath.”

“We swore our oath to Solas before we swore it to the King,” Fergus broke in. “The red-haired man is right, Ned, whoever he is. You _know_ he is. Your family lost your farm to the lords’ taxes, same as mine. And what happened to your sister, with the magistrate? And that man there, that Major Davies, he put his boot on Billy’s _stomach_ , Ned—Billy, who got stabbed trying to put down a prisoner who was only fighting in the first place because he hadn’t eaten in three days. And my brother says the officers in the Regiment treat enlisted men just the same. They don’t care how many of us die—and die for what? Some fellow on a throne who’s never been hungry a day in his life? It isn’t right, Ned, you know it isn’t.”

When Fergus began speaking, Merton’s jaw was stubbornly set. By the end, he was grinding his teeth together.

To Robert, he said, “How many men do you have?”

“More than you’d think,” said Robert. It probably wasn’t a lie.

“You’d bloody well better have enough to win,” said Merton, stepping back and dropping his sword. To Fergus, he said, “If I’m hanged a traitor, Arnie, my ghost is coming for you first.”

Absalom was in chaos. Robert couldn’t tell from the noise whether their side was winning or losing, only that a pitched battle was being fought in the courtyard.

A dozen guards ran past on the landing below. Robert and the others pressed themselves to the wall of the stairwell to avoid being seen. Ged caught Robert’s eye, but Robert shook his head. With so few men, they couldn’t afford to risk lives on a skirmish.

As they descended the stairs, a sullen boom rocked the keep. Robert had to grab for the wall to keep his footing.

“That’ll be the armory,” said Digby cheerfully.

“You blew up the armory?” said Merton, appalled.

“The Bustament Boys blew up the wall _into_ the armory,” Coogan corrected. Then, to Digby, “That Ibrerran fellow knows what he’s doing, eh?”

“The Bustament Boys are _terrorists_ ,” said Fergus, at the same time as Merton hissed, “You _idiots—_ Tam Tregeryth and his men are being held in the cell next to the armory. You’ll be lucky if the ceiling hasn’t come down on their heads.”

From within the keep, they heard many great and little cracking sounds, followed by rock and mortar falling. They looked at each other before breaking into a run.

When they reached the armory hallway, it was impassable. The air was choked with smoke. Rebels had rushed out to meet the guards. Robert saw Freddie Bustament swinging a shortsword, his boyish face alight with feral pleasure.

Robert went for his sword—but this time it was Ged who shook his head. _No time,_ he mouthed.

“I know a shortcut,” Digby panted, veering to the right.

The shortcut led them through the slaves’ quarters, empty but for an old man whose collar hung loose around his wizened neck. He cringed into the wall as they ran past, arms flung up as if to ward off a blow.

They ran down a narrow flight of stairs and down a corridor. Robert’s nose filled with smoke and stone dust; his head pounded. The walls were groaning. He could hear things shifting within.

Urgency gave time the quality of syrup. The corridor stretched out endlessly; their legs churned, but their bodies seemed to be carried forward by increments.

They turned the corner and were confronted with a vast iron door. Momentum nearly carried them into it. As one, they skidded to a halt, panting for breath.

Merton took the ring from his belt and fumbled a key into the lock. The door jumped open as he turned it.

And then everything happened very quickly.

The ceiling moaned; a rain of mortar choked the air. Robert had the impression of gray faces, open mouths, arms waving desperately through bars. He grabbed the keys from Merton and barreled into the smothering haze. He found the bolt by instinct, unlocked the cell door and yanked it open.

A confusion of bodies as men stampeded out—Robert grabbing arms, shoving shoulders, urging them to _Run, damn it, the ceiling’s coming down_ —before he caught sight of one man, unmoving, propped against the wall, forehead streaming red.

Then Robert was knocking away a big hand that tried to drag him back. He was pushing into the cell and shoving a shoulder under the injured man’s arm to shove him up onto his feet.

A figure appeared in the haze. Bright blue eyes, rimmed red and streaming; a mouth shouting something Robert couldn’t hear.

The figure grabbed the injured man’s other arm. They propelled themselves toward the shadow of the door and shoved the injured man through before diving after him. Together they threw the door shut behind them. Robert felt the ceiling come down in a reverberation through the iron at his back.

It occurred to him then that it had been some time since he’d last drawn a breath. He sank to the floor, dragging in burning lungfuls of air. The man collapsed beside him, panting like a bellows.

Once he’d recovered, Robert turned to the man—and did a double take. Curls the color of dark honey had escaped the knot at his nape, framing the sort of face that ballads were written about. He had the body of a swordsman used to wielding a two-handed weapon; the muscles in his arms and shoulders tapered into a lean waist. Beauty like his had its own gravity. The attention of the room had been subtly rearranged with him at its center.

“Tam Tregeryth,” said the man, sticking out a dust-streaked hand.

“Robert Black,” said Robert, shaking it. “Well-met in the name of Kenever.”

The injured man pushed himself up, wiping blood from his forehead.

“All right there, Wella?” said Tam cheerfully.

“Aye, sir. Noggin like a rock.”

“There’s a Dog,” said Tam, approving. Raising his voice, he asked, “Anyone dead?” The men chorused _No._ “Half-dead?” _No_ again. “Right good.” To Robert, he said, “Weapons?”

“Armory,” Robert replied, unintentionally adopting Tam’s clipped speech.

“Right good,” said Tam, pushing himself to his feet. He reached down and pulled Robert up as if he weighed no more than a child.

As they followed Tam down the corridor, Ged fell into step with Robert. “You’ve got a little drool on your chin,” he murmured in Keld.

“Oh, shut up. Anyway, you know I’m _dwyed._ ”

Ged laughed.

“Promised doesn’t mean blind, though, does it?”

By the time they reached the hallway outside the armory, the fighting was over. The bodies that littered the floor were mostly guards, though with a pang Robert recognized a few of the prisoners from the caravans. Guilt lanced through him. If they’d stayed to help the Bustaments, would these men still be alive?

Ged’s elbow dug sharply into Robert’s side.

“Knock that off,” he said. “Your handsome wolf would be buried in that cell along with the rest of his pack if it weren’t for you.”

Robert remembered the echo of the ceiling’s collapse shuddering down his spine. Ged was right; they’d had no time to spare.

Jordie Bustament emerged from the blueish smoke, sword in hand. Seeing Robert, he grinned. He was about to say something; then he caught sight of Tam Tregeryth and stopped short. A blush flooded his cheeks.

“Is that Robert Black?” said Freddie Bustament, shoving past his brother. “Great and little gods, sir, we thought you were dead. Silva!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Black’s not dead!”

Silva appeared in the doorway of the armory. His shock of black hair was white with dust. Soot streaked his face. He looked blissfully happy.

“ _Empto’nte!_ ” he cried. “ _Bom vert!_ Come see, come see!”

The exterior wall of the armory had been blown out, along with part of the floor. The wind rushed in, making whorls and eddies in the smoke. If Robert looked down, he could see through the floorboards and into the cellar.

But Robert wasn’t looking down. He was looking at the weapons—racks and racks of them, from floor to ceiling. Greatswords and axes and polearms and spears, bludgeons and maces and billyclubs. Two of the Bustament Boys were unloading a crate of fire arrows while a third squinted down the sights of a sleek new crossbow. There was even a cannon in the corner, its snub nose pointing at the hole in the wall as if to ward off an enemy that had long since overwhelmed it.

“This is enough to arm a militia,” said Robert, awed. “I’m surprised the Generals didn’t think to loot.”

“Oh, they did,” said Merton. “But there’s only so much weight you can carry on the march, especially if you’re flying full speed to the border. It was men they needed, anyway, not weapons.”

“Mm,” said Robert. He was watching Tam heft a greatsword. The muscles in his forearms flexed like corded rope.

(Of course Robert would never betray Luca. But a man could look, couldn’t he?)

Footsteps echoed from the hallway. Robert’s men turned to him, and the Dogs of Guye to Tam Tregeryth. Robert could tell Tam was counting the footfalls; so was he.

“Three men,” Tam murmured.

Robert nodded. But whose three?

That question was answered when the light flashed on a pair of little round glasses. Quinby, with Vetch and Tyburn running alongside him. Robert let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“Friends,” he said, answering Tam’s questioning look.

Quinby, Vetch, and Tyburn stumbled to a halt, panting. Tyburn’s sleeve had been torn away; his shoulder was cut open, the wound deep enough that Robert saw the white of bone.

“Not as quick as I used to be,” he said ruefully, a grin quirking his bloodless lips. “Good to see you breathing, sir. Which of these Northmen is Tregeryth?”

Tam stepped forward. The late afternoon sun streaming through the broken wall glinted golden on his hair and tanned skin. With the greatsword at his side, he looked like a storybook hero.

Robert was suddenly, acutely aware of the size of his nose. He hadn’t bathed in three days. If Luca could see him standing next to Tam—well, that didn’t bear thinking about.

“I’d like to shake your hand,” said Tyburn to Tam, sticking out his own. “It’s not every day you meet a legend, eh?”

Instead of deflecting the compliment (as Robert assured himself he certainly would have done), Tam just smiled and pumped Tyburn’s hand like a well piston. The movement clearly aggravated Tyburn’s shoulder, but he clenched his jaw to hide the wince of pain.

“Alfred sent us,” said Quinby to Robert. “Things aren’t going well.”

“It’s a slaughter,” said Tyburn, blunt as always. “They’ve got us outnumbered. Badly. Alfred gave the order to fall back to the caravans, but they won’t hold long.”

“He said you’d have a plan,” said Quinby hopefully.

Everyone turned to Robert. The weight of their expectation settled like a stone on his chest.

A plan. Of course Alfred thought he’d have a plan. The bastard.

Ged was hovering on the edge of the crowd, his big arms crossed over his chest. All it took was for Robert to cast him a pleading look and Ged was at his side at once.

“I’m out of ideas,” Robert said in Keld. “We need more men, but I can’t conjure them from air.”

“What about the prisoners?”

He had a point. Still—“Letting five hundred starved, traumatized civilians loose onto a battlefield?” said Robert. “It’ll be chaos.”

“Even wild horses can be herded,” Ged pointed out. “Besides, they’ve no reason to love the guards.”

Robert thought of Billy Myles. The Warden ruled Absalom as a tyrant; how desperate must a prisoner have been to strike out like that?

“If we free them,” said Robert, “what d’you think they’ll do?”

Ged’s gaze grew distant. Robert imagined that he saw the shape of memories flickering behind his eyes.

“Some’ll stay in their cells,” said Ged. “But those that come out will fight harder than anyone.”

For the rest of Robert’s life, he would remember the cells of Absalom Prison. On bad nights he’d close his eyes and be transported there again, his feet faltering on the stairs as the air grew close and fetid with unnameable smells. He had expected to find the prisoners clamoring for release. Instead he descended in silence. It was like entering the mouth of a tomb—and then, when the stairs leveled out and the cells stretched before him, like being confronted by the dead themselves.

A mass of gray faces regarded him through the bars. They were watchful in the sharp, focused way that animals are watchful when reduced to the immediacy of survival.

Robert realized then that what he’d mistaken for silence was the sound of a thousand ears turned to listen. The prisoners were waiting.

It was Merton who had the keys. He stepped forward and, with shaking hands, unlocked the first cell door.

For a long moment, no one drew breath. Then a ragged body detached itself from the mass and stepped out of the cell.

It was as if a dam had broken. Prisoners poured through the door, shoving past each other to get out. They were directed up the stairs to the armory, where the Bustament Boys waited to distribute weapons.

Robert followed Merton from cell to cell. He had been worried at first that the prisoners might seize on them, ravenous, devouring, because he had never seen such hunger in a human face and it seared him to the marrow. But the prisoners ignored them; the cells may as well have been opened by the wind. They surged past Robert as if he had no more substance than the memory of sunlight.

Not all the prisoners were quick to exit the cells. Some had to be dragged out, sobbing and cringing. And others were too broken to leave. Robert recognized Bors’s touch unmistakably. The tortured called out to him with voices thinned to the barest note by pain beyond imagining.

Robert knelt by men who might’ve been Hugo had his torment gone on and on, his body allowed to heal just enough only to be rent anew. Robert hadn’t known that humans could survive this much. That the flesh could live on so long after the will was broken.

Their eyes were an abyss. They begged for death, and Robert gave it to them.

After awhile, he became aware of Tam working beside him. They carried out their grim task in silence broken only by the moans and gurgles of the men they released. Tam was practiced; so was Robert. It wasn’t long before the cells were empty of the living.

Robert turned to Tam, expecting to see a mirror of his own bleak exhaustion. But Tam looked as cheerful as ever.

“You’d make a good Dog,” he said, clapping Robert on the shoulder with a bloodstained hand.

By the time they reached the courtyard, the fight was all but over. The prisoners had surged through the guards in a tidal wave, littering bodies in their wake.

Robert was in time to see them reach the Warden. His eyes met Robert’s briefly. There was no fear in them, only accusation.

 _You did this,_ the Warden’s expression seemed to say, before the human wave closed over and extinguished him.

In the aftermath, Robert strode through the bloodsoaked courtyard and shouted directions at the prisoners who milled, aimless now, among the carnage.

“Injured men, head back to the keep! Uninjured men, help the ones who can’t help themselves!”

The prisoners seemed grateful for the orders, and Robert was grateful to give them. He was quite certain that if he stopped moving, he would drown.

“Hey, Black!”

Robert turned to see Alfred striding toward him. Ged followed at a cautious distance. His eyes flickered over the bodies with weary unsurprise. Distantly, Robert wondered what horrors Luca had witnessed when the Regiment marched over Ost. If he’d felt the same nausea that welled in Robert now, burning his chest and throat.

“That was a smart move, releasing the prisoners,” said Alfred, clasping Robert’s shoulder. “Now let’s get you to the infirmary before your hand falls off.”

Funny; Robert couldn’t feel his hand. But that was a good thing, wasn’t it? He’d felt so much over the last few days. What a mercy it was to feel nothing now at all.

“There are men injured far worse than this,” he said, shrugging Alfred off. “Tyburn took a nasty blow to the shoulder, and half these prisoners have been tortured—that man there has a hole where his eye should be—and then there’s the boy, Billy Myles, he’s got a stab wound, a bad one, and infected, he won’t last the night if Quinby doesn’t—”

“Robert,” said Ged quietly in Keld. “Look at your hand.”

“We left Arkwright and Davies tied up in the Warden’s office,” Robert went on, ignoring him. “They’re high-value hostages; we have to keep them alive.”

“They escaped,” said Alfred. “Managed to slip their bonds sometime during the fight and made off with two horses. Tyburn sent Vetch and his highwaymen after them, but they’ve at least an hour’s lead.”

Robert rubbed his forehead. There was a sharp point of sensation coalescing between his eyes. Not pain, exactly; just pressure, like a dull arrow drilling slowly through the bones of his skull.

“Right,” said Robert. “We have to assume they’ll make it to Lyonesse. That means we have, what, four, five days on the outside? The keep’s built to withstand a siege, but Silva blew a hole in the side of it, and Merton painted a pretty bleak picture of the food supply.”

“There’s good news on that front, at least,” said Alfred. “The Watch brought a holiday ton of rations. We won’t be starving this month, or next.” He frowned. “Robert? You’re a very funny color.”

“I’m fine. How many guards survived? We’ll need to protect them, Fergus and Merton too, and all our men on the inside. The prisoners have been through hell, they’ll tear apart anything in a uniform—”

“ _Robert!_ ” Ged half-shouted. “Will you look at your fucking hand?”

The last time Ged raised his voice, it was because Robert was about to be run through by a Watchman. Now instinct made Robert look down.

His right hand hung limp at the end of his arm, so bloated it was almost unrecognizable. A steady trickle of blood dripped from his palm. As he watched, his fingers twitched. Strange; he hadn’t told them to do that.

“We should lock the rations in the cells to keep them from getting stolen,” said Robert absently. “We’ll have to remove the bodies first. They need to be given proper burial. D’you think we can dig graves here, or should we go inland to avoid hitting shale?”

“Why don’t we talk about that after you’ve seen Asher,” said Alfred.

Robert looked up sharply.

“Asher? What’s happened to him?”

Alfred and Ged exchanged glances.

“It’s best if you see for yourself,” said Alfred heavily, shaking his head. “He’s in the infirmary.”

Robert had never moved so fast, not even when the ceiling of Tam’s cell was coming down. He took the stairs two and three at a time, shouldering past passers-by. The memory struck him, unbidden, of bullying his way up the stairs of Cuyler Library with Val to find out whether or not they’d passed Quals. Could that have been only a year ago? It seemed like another lifetime.

The infirmary was in a state of controlled pandemonium. Quinby had clearly taken things in hand. He stood in the center of the room, sleeves rolled up, directing the prison doctors this way and that like a traffic controller. When he saw Robert, relief broke over his face—only to be replaced by concern in the next moment when he caught of Robert’s hand.

“Well, that isn't good,” said Quinby. “We need to prepare the operating theater immediately.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” said Robert, casting around for Asher. “Where the hell is he?”

“Who?”

But Robert had spotted the familiar mop of black curls. Asher was standing with his back to Robert. He was with Tyburn, who joked through clenched teeth as a doctor sewed together the ragged wound on his shoulder.

“Asher!” Robert shouted, pushing his way through the infirmary.

Hearing his name, Asher turned. There was blood all down his front—but no, it wasn’t his blood; it was Tyburn’s. Asher had torn away the bottom of his shirt to fashion a makeshift sling.

“Are you all right?” said Robert, grabbing him by the arm.

“’Course I am,” said Asher, grabbing him back. “But you aren’t. Your fucking _hand,_ Robert—Melita’s tits, it looks like you put it through a meat grinder.”

Robert was about to tell Asher that he was fine. Then he felt the prick of a needle in his arm.

He looked down and saw a syringe. Quinby was depressing the plunger. Behind him stood Ged and Alfred. Ged, at least, had the grace to look apologetic. 

“You are all bastards,” said Robert.

He would never admit that when the world dissolved into warm light, all he felt was relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are able, please consider donating to the National Bail Fund.
> 
> https://www.communityjusticeexchange.org/nbfn-directory


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do Tumblr now. There's whump on there, I like it.
> 
> https://pierrotwrites-hc.tumblr.com/

In the nine years he’d been locked away, not a day went by that Luca didn’t dream of the outside. But he’d forgotten just how much outside there was. The sky went on and on and the land rolled out in all directions until it met the sea, its waters so endless that they melted back into sky at their outermost. The first fierce surge of joy at being allowed back in the open had receded, leaving Luca nervy, half-panicked, jumping at every little thing.

It didn’t help that there was so much _noise_. The soldiers were in a holiday mood; they pushed and jeered and shouted at each other as they marched. The gray hills set off the red of their uniforms like a bonfire.

Luca remembered men in those same uniforms marching over Ost. The ash that blew in on a flame-licked wind, stinging Luca’s eyes, his throat.

And the screams. Luca remembered the screams. He could hear them still, echoing in the soldiers’ laughter.

“Hey, barbarian, give us a smile!”

Luca looked up to see soldiers leering at him. He dropped his eyes and focused on the pebbles that crunched under his boots.

Doran appeared, his broad cheeks chapped pink by the wind. He made a rude gesture and shouted, “Even your own mother doesn’t smile when she sees you!”

Luca’s breath stopped in his throat. But the soldiers only laughed.

“How about lifting his tunic and giving us a peek at that sweet little ass, then?” one of them shouted.

“Go squat over a millpond and get an eyeful of your own shaggy haunches!” Doran shouted back.

“Hey, Doran, if you give me ten minutes with the King’s boy, I’ll buy your manumission!”

“Like you could afford it, Fergus! You owe every man in the company a crown for cards and whores.”

The soldiers broke into hoots and jeers at the expense of the sheepish-looking man who Luca supposed was Fergus.

“Pay ’em no mind, Mouse,” said Doran, dropping his voice. “They know the General would have their hides if they tried anything.”

Luca wasn’t sure how the men felt about Master Balkas, but it was obvious how they felt about Doran. Luca had never seen a slave speak to free men the way that Doran did. Even Aquila’s putting on airs had only been tolerated because it was understood that his authority came from the King. But the way the soldiers treated Doran didn’t have anything to do with Master Balkas. It was as if—well, as if they simply liked him. As if they thought of him as a friend.

Luca was still trying to wrap his mind around that thought when a shadow fell over them. Hodge sneered down from the back of a horse, drawn up as tall as possible so that he towered over Doran.

“So _this_ is the cause of the holdup,” said Hodge. “You realize we’re moving at a snail’s pace because of that boy? The men are all dragging their feet trying to get an eyeful.”

Luca’s hands flew to his braid, pulling just hard enough to prick the scalp. _Always causing trouble, hole._

“When the barn cats were in heat, Connell’s mam used to turn the hose on them,” said Doran cheerfully. “Would you like me to try that, sir?”

“Just put him in the cart with Lord Toby,” said Hodge, rolling his eyes. “And for gods’ sakes, give him something useful to do. Hector won’t shut up about throwing him in a bog.”

Before Doran could reply, Hodge had kicked his horse into a canter. Its hooves threw up a spray of pebbles, forcing Luca and Doran to cover their faces. Soldiers scattered on either side as Hodge drove through the line.

“Whoever gave that prat a horse is going to be punished in the next life,” Doran muttered.

“What’d he want?” asked Connell, jogging to catch up with them. Master Balkas had ordered him to carry Toby’s swordroll to keep it from being mysteriously lost by the side of the road, and he was already sweating.

Doran was about to answer, but the hooting from a gaggle of onlookers distracted him.

“Rubberneckers!” Doran shouted at them. “Go fuck your sisters, you sons of dogs! Seven hells, you’d think they hadn’t just spent their shore leave humping every tupenny hole in Lyonesse,” he said to Connell. “At this rate it’ll take us a year to get to Redditch.”

“I’m sorry,” Luca whispered, winding his braid around his wrist.

“Oh, stuff it, Mouse,” snapped Doran. “Crivens, you’d apologize for breathing. Come on, let’s get you in the cart. You can keep your pretty face out of sight and polish the master’s medals while you’re at it. It needs doing anyway, and he’ll be happy as a magpie once all his metal’s shiny.”

Luca had never polished medals before, but the mechanics were simple enough for even him to understand. Toby looked up briefly when Doran pushed Luca into the cart; then, deciding he was of no interest, he went back to the book in his lap.

They sat in silence broken only by the jostling of the wheels. Luca tried to keep his attention on his task, but his eyes kept returning to the book. Looping gold letters on the leather cover read _The Nobele Quarrele._

“Have you read it?” asked Toby without looking up.

Realizing he’d been caught, Luca cringed. But no blow came. Perhaps the question was genuine.

“No, my lord,” said Luca.

“It’s about Legion,” said Toby, turning the page. “You’ve played Legion, of course.”

“No, my lord.”

At that, Toby looked up.

“Well, why not?” he said, equal parts shock and outrage.

“I—I don’t know, my lord,” said Luca. He had no idea how to tell Toby that slaves weren’t taught to play nobles’ games. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Legion is the Queen of Games,” said Toby sternly. “Aximander said that a man can’t consider himself civilized unless he knows at least thirty strategies. You don’t know any, so we shall have to start from the beginning.”

With that, Toby launched into a lecture on the playing of Legion. He described the game in such precise detail that Luca could envision the board with its red and ivory squares, its pieces arranged in postures of defense and attack. He could see the King and Queen in their Castle, the Prince and Chancellor on the steps, and the ranks of Clerics and Generals and Soldiers and Vassals protecting them. He could see them move, the Clerics diagonally, the Generals straight ahead and side to side, the Soldiers leapfrogging over the Vassals who plodded square by square across the board to seige the enemy’s Castle.

It was so interesting that Luca had to keep reminding himself to keep polishing. The medal he was working on was fiddly, with an intricately wrought centerpiece made up of four overlapping fleurs de lis. Dust had built up in the little crevices; Luca had to use a bit of polish on his fingernail to work it out.

“No, look, you aren’t doing that right at all,” said Toby, interrupting his description of the circumstances under which the Prince was permitted to climb the Castle steps. “Here, I’ll show you. Give it to me.”

Apprehension twisted in Luca’s stomach, but he couldn’t disobey an order. He handed Toby the medal.

“See, this part is supposed to come off,” said Toby, screwing the centerpiece around like the lid of a jar.

There was a muffled snap. The centerpiece came away in Toby’s hand. Without it, there was nothing to hold the fleurs de lis together. They clattered to the floor.

“I didn’t turn it that hard,” said Toby, voice rising. “You must’ve cracked it before you gave it to me. This is your fault.”

Luca reached down to pick up the fluers de lis. One had broken when it fell; the tip pricked Luca’s finger.

“Here, just hide this under the other medals,” said Toby, shoving the rest of the pieces into Luca’s hands. “Balkas will think it broke in the box.”

Numbly, Luca obeyed. The medals were arranged on velvet-lined shelves. At Toby’s direction, Luca rearranged the medals so that the absence of the broken one wasn’t quite as obvious. Then he tucked the shattered pieces beneath the velvet inset.

“You won’t say anything,” said Toby, recovering his authority. “Promise you won’t.”

Softly, Luca recited, “I won’t say anything. I promise I won’t.”

“Good,” said Toby with a sigh of relief.

He didn’t have to put words to the knowledge that hung in the air between them. They both knew that no one would believe Luca. And anyway, he had no one to tell.

That night, they made camp on the side of a hill that blocked the brackish wind sweeping in from the sea. Luca had been looking forward all day to watching the sun dissolve into rays of color as it sank beneath the earth. The sunsets here were not quite so splendid as in Ost, but still, the sight took his breath away.

As he helped Connell and Doran put up their tent, Luca kept an eye on the darkening sky. When he was little, his mother would take him and his brothers to the roof on clear nights like this. They’d lay on their backs in the thatch and their mother would teach them to call every star by name. She used to say that the sky was the Lady’s map. No matter how lost you were, you could always find yourself by the lights she scattered to guide you home.

But when the stars appeared, they looked different than Luca remembered. He had a moment of blinding disorientation. How could the sky have turned around on him?

But no—there was Syr, the Shieldmaiden, and her white bear beside her. And there, Vanor; and there, Ifor ap Nud. They were all still here, just in different places. Even if everything else in Luca’s life had changed, the stars remained.

And Robert would see these same stars. Perhaps he was seeing them now out of his window in his grandfather’s palace. Was it conceited for Luca to hope that Robert was thinking of him? To hope that Robert felt even a fraction of the longing that surged in Luca’s chest?

Luca could see Robert so clearly. The strong, sharp lines of him. The hair falling over his forehead, always disheveled no matter how many times he brushed it back. The smile crinkling the corners of his eyes, kind and wicked all at once. His _eyes_ , Lady. Wolves thought the sea was blue, but it wasn’t, not on this coast. It was gray, the same gray as Robert’s eyes.

Luca fixed the image of Robert in his mind. He would’ve knelt if he could, like he used to do before Ganymene’s altar.

 _I miss you_ , Luca thought. _I miss you so much. Everything is so strange here. It’s like the borders have fallen off of the world. Like I could fall off the edge and never stop falling. But it’s exciting, too. As if anything could happen now. As if I could be—_

Luca didn’t know how to finish that thought. _As if I could be different_ , maybe, but that didn’t make sense. _As if I could worth something_ , but no, that was even more absurd.

 _As if I could be_. Maybe that was enough. Just to be, until Robert found him again. Then Luca would belong to Robert. He would never have to be anything but Robert’s ever again.

A shuffling noise jolted Luca from sleep. It was early still; the light was new. He pushed himself up on his elbow, careful not to jostle Doran, who lay snoring beside him.

Connell was outlined in shadow against the light breaking through the thin canvas. He’d pulled on his tunic and was packing up his leather satchel. Seeing Luca stir, he looked sheepish.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispered. “The camp won’t be up for another hour yet. You can go back to sleep.”

The flap of Connell’s satchel was open. Luca saw a dozen cork-capped glass vials neatly bound in burlap.

“I’m going collecting,” Connell explained, latching the satchel. “You can come, if you want.”

Luca stared at him. Was it a trick? But no, Connell seemed sincere. Luca hastened to pull on his sweater and boots and scrambled after Connell out of the tent.

It was so early that it felt like the day was holding its breath. The air still held the freshness of wet stone. As Luca followed Connell up the hillside, his boots kicked up drops of dew. They flashed like flint strikes in the hazy silver light.

“We’re on chalk here,” said Connell, pointing to the white ridges in the distance. “It’s rich soil. Old. Plants flourish here that don’t grow anywhere else.”

He stooped down, penknife flashing in his hand.

“See? Milk-vetch. Good for the heart. It’ll bring a fever down, too, and help with the pain from ulcers.”

“Did your mother teach you about plants?” Luca asked, watching Connell tie the weeds into a bundle and stow them in his satchel.

Connell nodded. Then, with a note of pride, he said. “She’s a bit of a witch, my mam. Not like you’re thinking,” he added hastily, seeing Luca’s expression. “She’d never do anyone harm. But she knows everything there is to know about healing. She’s famous for it all over the Flats. Even Lady Amelia orders down to the kitchens for Reenie’s willowbark tea when she’s in one of her headaches.”

Luca tried to keep the unease from his face. Witches must be very different in Solas, because back in Kel, they were definitely evil. He remembered when the old _wrach_ Dyvna cast her evil eye on the fishing nets, and for weeks all the men pulled in was seaweed and bycatch. Her eyelids had to be pierced with fishing hooks to break the spell. The men who did it were whipped, of course, because the overseers didn’t understand about _wrachvreft_ ; they thought it was silly barbarian superstition. But the fish leapt into the nets after that, which everyone agreed was just more proof that the wolves had no business interfering in the ways of the Keld.

Then again, Luca’s uncle Enar had known about herbs and poultices. He treated the men after they were whipped, and nobody accused him of _wrachvreft_. Connell’s mother must be like Uncle Enar, then, and not like Dyvna.

Reassured, Luca crouched beside Connell. At his direction, Luca helped gather a handful of light-pink flowers with long green stems.

“Squincewort,” said Connell. “It cures quinsy—you know, sores in the mouth. Hodge gets it every time there’s hay in the air. Doesn’t improve his character, either, I’ll tell you that.”

Luca hid his flinch at Hodge’s name by pretending to wave away a bee.

“He and the master were at school together,” said Luca. He tried to sound chatty, incurious. Just an empty-headed whore parroting something he’d picked up somewhere.

Connell nodded. “Master Balkas’s father was the Duke’s aide-de-camp back in the day. He was just a footsoldier, but he saved the Duke’s life a time or two. The Duke was the type to pay his debts, so he sponsored Master Balkas for the Officer’s Academy. I take it he was the only student who wasn’t well-born. Ate a lot of shit for it, too. Anyway, that’s where the master met Hodge.”

“Mr. Hodge is well-born?” said Luca, surprised.

“Ragged gentry,” said Connell, rolling his eyes. “He’ll go on for days about his ancient and noble lineage, but the truth is the family lost their title five generations ago. He only got into the Academy because some cousin called in a favor. And you can see he’s not exactly had a brilliant military career. Being the master’s glorified servant is a real comedown for him.”

That made sense. In Luca’s experience, it was always the man with the chip on his shoulder who took his humiliations out on slaves.

“He’s a clever weasel, though,” Connell went on, pulling up a plant with more force than was strictly necessary. “Wasted no time appointing himself Master Balkas’s Grand Chancellor. Always at his side, whispering in his ear.”

“Oh,” said Luca, his stomach plummeting. “The master trusts him, then?”

“Completely, and against all common sense,” said Connell sourly. “Here, grab me a handful of those flowers there, would you? Roots and all.”

Luca obeyed, pulling up the periwinkle flowers by their long, stringy roots and tossing them in the bag Connell held out. The leaves left a chalky residue on his skin. At Connell’s direction, Luca held out his hands so that water could be poured on them.

“Whenever you pick fluxweed, you’ve got to wash off before you touch anything else,” Connell explained. “The flowers are pretty to look at, but they’ll make your guts open up like a mill sluice. I dry and grind the roots into powder, see?”

He reached into his satchel and brought out a paper envelope illustrated with a careful, perfect drawing of a fluxweed blossom. Inside was a fine periwinkle powder.

“It’s is good to keep on hand in case someone eats something they shouldn’t—which the soldiers will do, by the way, since they’re all the gods’ own idiots. Anyway, a pinch will clear your system right out.”

Connell stood, knocking his hands off against his trousers. Pollen dusted his hair, gilding the sticking-up bits. A bit of spiderweb glittered on his shoulder.

Connell turned to say something to Luca. Then he did a double take and burst out laughing.

“Your _hair_ , Luca! It’s all twigs and leaves, and you’ve got half a moth’s wing stuck over your ear. Here, you’ve got to see this.”

Connell took a handkerchief from his satchel and unfolded a piece of mirror. It must’ve broken off from a looking-glass; the irregular edges had been carefully sanded down.

“Take a look at your morning glory, Golden Bird,” said Connell, holding up the mirror.

Luca's reflection made no more sense than it ever did, just a jumble of oversized features in a too-thin face. The hair around the face had escaped from its braid and pulled every stem and shoot and stick on the hillside into its orbit. Luca brushed his fingers over the velvety brown wing tangled at his temple.

“Careful, or you’ll start a fashion,” said Connell, grinning. “The men will think the woodland look is all the rage at Highcourt.”

Luca felt himself grinning back. It was so like talking to Asher again that he forgot to be afraid.

“Maybe I should leave it like this, then,” Luca said, “and see what the soldiers stick in their hair to keep up with the swells in Lyonesse.”

Luca regretted the words the moment they left his mouth— _Should have you caned for talking about free men that way, hole_ —but Connell threw back his head and laughed.

“You know, that was very nearly a joke,” he said, clapping Luca on the shoulder. “You’ll have to repeat it for Doran when we get back. Otherwise he won’t believe me.”

But when they got back to camp, Doran had just dragged himself out of his bedroll and was in no mood for jokes. Seeing Luca and Connell wind-chapped and cheerful, he gave them a look of disgust.

“There’s a special field in hell for early risers,” he muttered.

His bad mood continued as they packed their bedrolls and took down the tent. As Connell demonstrated to Luca how the sheet of canvas could be folded so that it was no larger than a book, Doran dumped an armful of kindling into the pit and made heavy weather of getting the breakfast fire started.

When Connell went to wake Toby, Doran rounded on Luca.

“I suppose Con was too busy adding to his weed collection to pick up our ration of solly,” he said. “Well, I can’t be expected to foot it on empty. You see those mess carts there, the big ones with the sacks of all-sorts in the back? You go find Cook and ask for the General’s household’s solly portion.” Then, softening, he added, “And I’ve sent word round that the first fellow who touches you gets his little finger cut off and mailed home to his mother, so if one of the good-for-nothings tries his luck, see you take down a name and rank, all right? Can’t make a threat like that around here unless you’re willing to back it up.”

Fortunately the mess carts weren’t far from their campsite. Luca passed only a few soldiers, and they shared Doran’s resentment at having to be up so early. Even their catcalls were halfhearted and swallowed by yawns.

Luca recognized Cook at once. A short, barrel-shaped slave in a leather apron, he stood with his fists on his hips, bellowing orders at his scuttling underlings. He was bald as an egg and wore his grizzled beard in braid all the way down his belly. Luca wondered whether he reeled it into a net when he was cooking.

“So you’re the one the lads are all losing their heads over,” said Cook, looking Luca up and down. “Well, I like a pair of tits, but I can’t say I’d throw you out of bed for eating crackers. What can I do for the General this morning?”

“Doran sent me to collect the household’s solly portion, sir.”

“I bet he did,” said Cook with a chuckle. “Crankier than a wet cat until he’s had his morning cuppa. Hrini!” he shouted.

A slave ducked around the nearest mess cart—a barbarian, Luca realized, his heart skipping. He was older than Luca, the age Alek would be if he was still alive. His skin was so deeply tanned that his hair and eyebrows looked bleached. The lines of woad inked into his arm shaped a double-headed axe. Skuld, then. They were a proud clan. No wonder Hrini refused to meet Luca’s eyes.

“Hey,” said Cook, grinning back and forth between them, “any chance you know each other?”

Luca shook his head. Hrini turned away and spat into the grass.

“Well, anyway,” said Cook, grin fading. “The General’s boy needs his household’s solly ration. Throw in a couple sugar cubes while you’re at it, and my compliments to Connell. That poultice he makes for my gamy foot is the only thing keeping me upright save a stiff drink and the gods’ mercy.”

It turned out that solly was a granular powder the color of freshly-turned earth. The smell was familiar; it took Luca a moment to place it. Of course: the pot in Mr. Kemp’s office. And Robert had smelled like this sometimes when he’d been up all night studying.

Hrini shoveled the solly into a gannysack and tossed in a handful of sugar cubes. Instead of giving the sack to Luca, he shoved at Cook. Before Cook could say anything, Hrini had stalked off.

“No love lost between countrymen, eh?” Cook said to Luca, arching a woolly brow.

Luca took the sack from Cook with a smile of apology. He hoped that Hrini wouldn’t be punished for treating Luca like what he was.

( _Ergihŵr_. That’s what he was.)

Back at the campsite, Doran was frying strips of meat over the fire. They shriveled in the pan, releasing the smell of hot fat and hickory. A bubble of grease popped in the pan. Luca jumped back and swallowed a squeak of surprise.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never had bacon,” said Doran. “Well, you’re about to have your life changed, Mouse. Here, fill that kettle with water and we’ll put the solly on. It’s the most civilized breakfast a man can have, hot solly and bac’. If Con and Toby don’t get a move on, I’ll eat the whole ration myself. Speak of the devil,” he added, as Connell approached. “Where the hell is Toby?”

“He says that waking up this early is a violation of his rights as a free citizen under the Imperium,” Connell sighed. “Dor, can you…?”

“On it,” said Doran, pushing himself to his feet and making for Toby’s tent with grim purpose.

“Gently!” Connell called after him.

Doran either didn’t hear that directive or chose to ignore it. He aimed a kick at the bulge of Toby’s rump on the other side of the canvas.

“Budge, lump!” he shouted.

The body inside the tent flailed away, making affronted noises.

“Yeah, well, I hate you too,” said Doran, kicking him again. “Go on, then. Move your fat arse before I stick my foot in it.”

The burning in Luca’s chest alerted him to the fact that he hadn’t inhaled since the first time Doran kicked Toby— _Lord_ Toby, Lady, he was a _noble_ , a Carlyle, the cousin of the King! Doran could be killed for this. Worse than killed. The King had once ordered a slave flayed alive for spilling wine. Assaulting a member of the royal family—Luca couldn’t even imagine the penalty for such a crime.

But no guards descended on Doran. The earth didn’t open up to swallow him whole. Toby dragged himself out of his tent and staggered to his feet, still wrapped in blankets.

“Connell, Doran’s being horrible,” Toby announced. “Make him stop.”

“Doran, you are a monster,” said Connell. “Now, Master Toby, would you like your breakfast, or shall I let the bacon get cold?”

The prospect of cold bacon was highly motivating. Toby disappeared into his tent and reappeared several moments later in unlaced breeches, an unbuttoned shirt, and his vest on inside-out. He shoved on his boots (Luca rather suspected they were on the wrong feet) and tromped to the campfire, where he threw himself down on the flat rock Connell had rolled over for him.

“I do not like cold bacon,” said Toby, to no one in particular. “The fat congeals and the rind becomes unpleasantly tough. Don’t you agree?” he said, turning to Luca.

“I don’t know, my lord.”

“He’s never had bacon,” said Doran, dumping the pan’s contents onto a tin plate.

“ _Never?_ ” Toby gasped. Then, to Luca, “Not _never_ , surely.”

“Never, my lord,” said Luca, struggling to keep a straight face.

Toby shook his head. “That’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Is that a stir of fellow-feeling in your iron heart, Lump?” said Doran, shoving the plate at Toby. “Go on and give him your bacon, then.”

Toby’s expression of dismay was so earnest that Luca had to bite his lip to keep back a guilty snort of laughter.

“Oh, no,” said Toby. “He can’t have this bacon. This bacon’s mine.”

“Oho!” Doran snorted. “Aren’t we high-minded! A right model of charity, you are. And the Keneverites say lords don’t care about the lowborn. Well, you’ve proved them wrong today, haven’t you, Sir Porkface?”

Toby tried to retort, but his mouth was full. He could only make noises of muffled outrage.

They went on sniping at each other as Toby ate his breakfast and Doran bullied him into righting his clothes. Watching them, Luca felt half-sick with confusion. He’d never seen a slave act so free with a noble. Even with Robert, Luca never would’ve dared to be this familiar.

But then Luca remembered how Bran and Alek used to bicker, and he understood.

Once Toby had eaten, Connell fried bread and bacon for the rest of them. Doran showed Luca how to use the bread to sop up the hot grease and bits of charred meat at the bottom of the pan.

“That’s the best part,” he said, his mouth full.

For all the others seemed to enjoy bacon, Luca found it almost unbearable. Too oily, too rich. The savor of salt and smoke overwhelmed him. Slaves were fed well at Highcourt, but Luca realized now that their meals had been virtually flavorless. Bacon tasted like something slaves should be forbidden. It was too much—like the outdoors was too much, a vast expanse of space yawning open to swallow him.

The rush of vertigo must have shown on Luca’s face. Doran frowned.

“You all right, there, Mouse?”

Luca was not all right. He needed walls and ceilings and a door that his master could lock. He needed bland food that he would enjoy for no other reason than the obligation to survive. He needed to be fucked like a hole by the man who owned him and told it was all he was good for. These were the anchor points of his world. If they fell away, what was left?

“I’m fine,” said Luca. Then, because Doran and Connell looked so expectant, he added, “It’s—good, the bacon. Thank you for feeding me.”

“Ah, well, we can’t have you fainting into a bog and making the master’s day, now, can we?” said Doran, clapping his shoulder.

Because Doran and Connell were pleased with him, Luca tried to finish everything on his plate. But there was too much; already his stomach strained against the front of his tunic. How strange to be so full! Luca pressed his hand against his abdomen, feeling the slight bulge with a sort of wonder.

“Are you going to finish that?” said Toby, eyeing the bacon and bread left on Luca’s plate.

“Yes, he is,” said Connell before Luca could respond. “He needs that food more than you do, sir.”

Toby scowled. He opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. A secretive expression stole across his face. When Connell got up to help Doran hitch the horses to the cart, Toby snatched Luca’s plate from his unresisting hands and emptied its contents onto his own.

“You shouldn’t waste food, you know,” said Toby around a mouthful of bacon. “There are barbarian children going to bed hungry in the Territories.”

Luca’s fingernails dug into his palms. He _knew_ there were children starving in Kel; he’d watched them die. He would never waste food, not ever. There were at least three good meals left on that plate, four if he was careful. Luca didn’t care if his bacon was cold. Hot meals were still a novelty, a privilege, one he knew could be taken away at any time.

But Luca done nothing to earn this food. Of course Toby had every right to take it. He could do anything to Luca. Whatever he wanted. Luca should be grateful he’d been allowed to eat at all.

“Good to see you finally finish a meal,” said Connell when he returned, seeing Luca’s empty plate.

“Yes, thank you,” said Luca, keenly aware of Toby watching him. “I finished it, and I’m grateful, very, very grateful, thank you, s—Connell.”

Luca collected the plates and wiped them down before packing them away in the cart. There was a crust of bread left over. Luca glanced around to make sure no one was looking before tucking it away for later. Just in case.

The solly had been brewing in a copper pot over the fire. When Doran lifted the lid, a cloud of steam rolled out. It had a sharp, ferrous smell, like rain on hot metal. Doran took a deep whiff and hummed happily to himself before measuring out a portion into each of their canteens.

“I drink Toby’s ration, as a favor to him,” Doran explained to Luca as he poured a double portion into his own canteen. “One sip and he’s bouncing around like a donkey that’s got into the cider press. Go on, Mouse, take a swig. It’ll put hair on your chest.”

Luca didn’t think he was allowed to have hair on his chest. Still, he obeyed the order—and then regretted it the instant the solly hit his tongue. Hot, gritty, so bitter that his face twisted up. He had to force himself to swallow.

“What _is_ this?” he managed once he’d recovered.

“Soluble coffee,” said Connell, coming up behind him. Then, dropping his voice, “Isn’t it awful? Gods know why Doran and the soldiers lose their heads over it. Here, try putting a sugar cube on your tongue and straining the liquid through.”

The sugar went a long way to making solly palatable. Luca let the bitter liquid dissolve into sweetness before tucking his canteen away and climbing into the cart. Toby was sitting cross-legged, bent over _The Nobele Quarelle._ Luca had expected to be ignored, but to his surprise, Toby looked up and took off his reading glasses.

“Where did we leave off yesterday?” Toby asked, closing his book.

“You were explaining how the Prince climbs the Castle, sir.”

“Oh, of course. Now, this is where the Chancellor steps in…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this chapter (or even if you didn't), please consider donating to the Black Visions Collective:
> 
> https://www.blackvisionsmn.org/


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some housekeeping:
> 
> \- Since chapters keep going so much longer than I originally planned for and getting split up as a result (e.g., this chapter), I've voided the total chapter count for Part II because I...don't know how many there will be!
> 
> \- I had to go back to previous chapters and fiddle with some minor geographic stuff, as well as adjust down the number of prisoners at Absalom from 1000 to 500. I HATE doing stuff like this and apologize if it causes confusion. This is the downside of posting as you go.
> 
> \- I am NaNoWriMo'ing and also working three jobs and trying to finish the first leg of my thesis, so if I'm posting less frequently than usual, that's why. Again, I truly apologize. I can't put into words how grateful I am for this incredible community of generous, insightful, encouraging readers. I don't know where I'd be without you.

Robert was drifting through deep waters. The fathoms were dark and pleasantly formless. Every now and then he would bump up against something. Shapes, submerged in the between.

His hand brushed warmth. Strands of gold glittered in the dim. Tangled with—twigs?

Robert pulled something away. Soft, weightless. A moth’s wing.

_Robert…Everything is so strange here…_

The wing dissolved and blew away.

Robert came awake at once, thrumming with urgency. There was something he needed to do, something important. If only he could remember…

His thoughts were scattered by a small noise on the periphery. Sleep glued his eyelids together. It took him a moment to work them open—only to close them again when light pierced, too bright to bear.

Gods, how long had he been out?

Long enough for stubble to grow, if his itching jaw was any indication. Robert raised his hand to scratch.

He was struck by the memory of a nail driving through the flesh of his palm.

Robert’s eyes flew open. After the deep, sight was blinding. Colors bled and jumbled together, a riot of nonsense. Tears stung his eyelids. Small muscles twitched in his arms, his legs. He could feel the soft machinery inside his body whir grudgingly to life.

With torturous slowness, Robert’s vision cleared. Looking down, he saw his right hand wrapped in bandages. Pain was a distant nuisance, easy to ignore.

Slowly, wincing, Robert turned his head. The blur beside his bed resolved into Asher. He was curled catlike in his chair, knees to his chin, head pillowed on his arm. He’d spread the jacket of his uniform over himself like a blanket.

Feeling Robert’s gaze on him, Asher stirred. When he saw Robert awake, his eyes widened; he pushed himself up. For a moment, he and Robert did nothing but stare at each other. Then, at the same time, they broke into mad grins.

“Can you believe we got out of that shit alive?” said Asher. “We cheated the gods again, you know.”

“I know. They’ll really be coming for us now.” For the first time, Robert noticed the bandage covering Asher’s bad ear. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

Asher shook his head. “The doctor drained it. He says that when—when I was hit, you know, at the Harlequin—anyway, it caused a clot.”

“Boxer’s ear.”

“Yeah, that’s what we called it in Docktown. I thought it’d be like that forever, but Quinby stuck it with this needle the size of a fucking harpoon and sucked out all the old blood. He says as long as I keep the bandage on and don’t fuss with it too much, it should go back to the way it was, you know. Before.”

As he spoke, Asher’s hand rose unconsciously to brush the bandage. Then, realizing what he was doing, he forced his hand back down to his lap.

“I still can’t hear out of it, though,” he said, with forced lightness. “When the Beast—when he—well, anyway, the little bones inside got broken and my eardrum broke, too. So that’s forever, I guess.”

“You never told me you’d gone deaf in that ear,” said Robert quietly.

Asher rolled his eyes. “And I’ve got to tell you everything, do I?”

“Only when it’s important.”

Asher jerked his shoulders in a shrug. He looked away.

“It’s been a long time since anyone but Luca or Mama Karga gave a shit about me,” he said, voice gruff. “Guess I got out of the habit of telling people things.”

“It’s a habit you ought to get back into.”

“You’re one to talk,” Asher snorted. “If you’d had it your way, you’d’ve run around the keep ’til you got gangrene and the doctor had to chop your hand off.”

“I never pretended to be a role model,” said Robert, with as much dignity as he could muster. “I see myself as more of a case study in poor decisions.”

Asher burst out laughing. Fierce affection bloomed in Robert’s chest. Scald the land, but it was good to make Asher laugh again.

“How long was I passed out, anyway?” Robert asked, rubbing the growth of stubble on his chin.

“Three days.”

“Fields of hell!”

“Hey, me and Jordie tried dripping water on your eyelids, but you just swore at us in Lübeckin,” said Asher, shrugging. “Anyway, Quinby said you needed the sleep.”

Grudgingly, Robert had to admit that Quinby was right. He could feel how much the great and little aches of his body had healed during his time in the deep.

“What happened while I was out?” he asked.

“Well, they found about a hundred barrels of ale in the cellar,” said Asher, “so mostly everyone’s been drunk.”

“Oh, scald the fucking _land_.”

“It’s kept the peace, anyway,” said Asher, grinning. “Alfred was worried about the prisoners and the guards, but nobody’s killed each other yet.”

“Well, that’s good news, at least. Where is Alfred?”

“Tam Tregeryth sent him and Hal to the coast. I guess that Balkas fellow passed by the day we got here and now Tam’s worried there might be more ships coming from Lyonesse.”

Robert couldn’t imagine that Alfred was pleased with that posting. It seemed Tam had wasted no time appointing himself commander of the keep.

“What about Ged?” Robert asked, manuevering himself into a sitting position.

“Ged?” Asher echoed. “Oh, the gladiator. Dunno, I haven’t seen him. Maybe Alfred took him to the coast.”

Robert seriously doubted that. Alfred didn’t speak Keld, and Ged clearly wasn’t eager to let on that he spoke Solasan. Besides, the bad blood between soldiers and barbarians ran deep. Alfred and Ged may have joined forces to trick Robert, but he wasn’t optimistic enough to think that a moment of mutual interest indicated any sort of lasting alliance.

Before Robert could press the point, Quinby appeared at his bedside. His eyes were sunk in circles of exhaution, but he still looked more cheerful than Robert had ever seen him.

“Robert! I’m glad to see you up. How’s your pain?”

“Nonexistent,” said Robert, which was practically true. “But my hand, Quinby. Is it—” _Ruined,_ he couldn’t bring himself to say.

Quinby hesitated. Then, carefully, he said, “I don’t want to downplay the seriousness of your injury. The nails may have missed the major bones and tendons, but there was damage to the nerves and soft tissue. The brand burned away a large area of skin. You lost a great deal of blood, and by the time I operated, infection had already set in. I debrided and irrigated the wounds, administered fluids, and gave you a prophylactic tetanus shot as well as extended-release painkillers. You’ve been responding well to antibiotics—”

“Quinby, for gods’ sakes,” Robert broke in, “just tell me whether I’ll be able to punch someone again.”

“As your _doctor_ , I cannot recommend inflicting blunt force trauma on any part of your body, let alone one that has suffered serious injury,” said Quinby sternly. “However, I cautiously predict that, with rehabilitation, you can return to, ah, punching people in as little as six months. _Can_ doesn’t mean _should,_ mind you, because the structural integrity of your hand—”

Robert had stopped listening. “Six _months?_ ”

“Oh, shut up, Robert,” Asher snapped. “For fuck’s sake, you could’ve lost your whole fucking arm.”

Until that moment, Robert hadn’t realized how worried Asher had been. Probably as worried as Robert had been himself when Alfred told him that Asher was in the infirmary.

“You’re right,” said Robert. “I’m sorry, Quinby. I owe you a debt.”

“You owe me _nothing_ ,” said Quinby, so emphatic he sounded almost angry. “You’ve saved my life twice over. And other lives as well, for that matter.”

As Quinby spoke, he gestured to the bed beside Robert. Billy Myles lay sleeping, his too-young face no longer pinched with pain. If not for the thick bandages swaddling his abdomen, he could’ve been a schoolboy taking a nap after an afternoon on the games pitch.

“He’s recovering,” said Quinby, answering the question Robert wasn’t brave enough to voice. “I had to remove his spleen, but he should make it.”

Now that Robert was sitting up, he could see how full the infirmary was. Every bed was full, and more cots had been set up in the hallway.

“I see you’ve no shortage of patients,” said Robert.

Quinby gave a rueful laugh.

“Thank goodness the reinforcements from Lyonesse came with medical supplies. The other doctors tell me they were tearing up bedsheets for bandages.”

Quinby nodded to the doctor examining one of a former prisoner a few beds over. Though he wore a white coat, he had the same unhealthy pallor as the man he was treating.

“The doctors were prisoners, too,” Quinby said quietly.

Robert thought of the cells. Five hundred living men flickering on the edge of death, like shades over a grave.

“How many died in the battle?” Robert asked, before he could stop himself.

“Many,” said Quinby. “But many more lived.”

“Well.” Robert cleared his throat. “That’s something, anyway.”

“It’s a very great deal,” said Quinby. “Now, you are to rest, recover, and most importantly, do as little with your hand as possible _._ ”

“Absolutely,” Robert agreed. “No problem.”

“The second I turn my back you’re going to be out of that bed, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but you made your case very well, and you should find comfort in the knowledge that a smarter man would have listened to you.”

In the three days since the battle, Absalom had been transformed into a tavern. The air stank of beer and unwashed bodies. Robert and Asher picked their way over men sprawled on stairs and through the hallways. Only the prisoners’ sallow skin and protruding bones distinguished them from their former keepers.

Robert saw Merton with his head on a prisoner’s shoulder. Both were snoring, sour fumes of ale issuing from their slack mouths.

“Looks like Bacchanal,” Asher muttered.

Robert had been thinking the same thing. The memory came to him, unbidden, of that first night at the Harlequin. Adrian’s smooth voice, coaxing as he pressed the glass to Robert’s lips. The burn of silver soothed by the numb of wine. The boy on the stage, bewitchingly lovely—and somehow familiar. His flight from the satyr, the desperation Robert now knew was unfeigned. And the moment when Robert had pulled off Luca’s mask, seen the dead, and fled himself.

Thinking of it now, shame burned in Robert’s chest. How many times had he failed his boy? How could Luca go on loving him? Trusting him?

At least there was one thing Robert knew. He had to return to Lyonesse as soon as possible. He had to rescue Luca from the King.

That thought was so consuming that Robert nearly ran straight into Tyburn and the Bustaments as they turned the corner. Robert was taken aback by how happy they were to see him—and taken aback again when he realized how happy he was to see them in turn.

“Mr. Black!” said Jordie, bouncing on his heels.

“I’m damned glad you’re up and about, sir,” said Tyburn, clapping his shoulder. “Dunno if you heard, but that Tam Tregeryth sent Alfred off to the coast, and Vetch and the rest of my men haven’t returned from chasing after those fuckers from Lyonesse.”

“And he ordered _our_ men to fetch ale,” said Freddie, scowling. “We’re fighters, Mr. Black. If we wanted to be barmaids, we’d go back to the Midlands and get fucking paid for it.”

“I’ll talk to Tam,” Robert promised, resisting the urge to rub his temples. He’d scarcely been up an hour and already the infirmary bed was beckoning him back. “I take it you three didn’t care to join the festivities yourselves?”

“A man’s got to keep his wits about him in this company,” said Tyburn. “’Specially recovering from this damned injury. As for the lads, they don’t touch spirits.”

“If your dad drank like ours did, you wouldn’t either,” said Freddie darkly.

“What about you, sir?” asked Tyburn. “I wouldn’t grudge you a tipple, not after the week you’ve had. Me and the lads can watch your twelve and six, make sure none of these sots takes advantage.”

Robert was desperately tempted. Gods, how long had it been since he’d lost himself to the anesthetizing stupor of alcohol? The rotgut he’d downed before Quinby examined his hand hardly counted.

But no, that was not the whisper of his better angels. Robert couldn’t lose focus just because the battle was over. There was still the war to win.

“Later, maybe,” he said. “I need to find Ged. The gladiator,” he clarified, seeing their blank expressions.

“Your barbarian, you mean?” said Tyburn. “Don’t worry, sir. Tam Tregeryth ordered him locked in the cells.”

“ _What?_ Why?”

“Security,” said Tyburn, as though it was obvious. “Can’t have a brute like that wandering free when its master isn’t around to control it. No offense, sir,” he added hastily, misinterpreting Robert’s look of rage. “Of course you couldn’t help being unconscious. But Tregeryth had to take precautions—”

Robert was done listening. He liked Tyburn, but if he heard anymore, he might have to kill him.

Robert turned to the Bustaments—who, to their credit, looked as horrified as Robert felt.

“You know how to strike off slave collars?” he said.

“’Course,” said Freddie, grinning. “Hell, we already freed all the prison slaves. We just have to nip to the armory to grab supplies.”

“Meet me in the cells,” said Robert. To Asher, he said, “Do _not_ follow me.”

Robert turned on his heel and stalked off before either Asher or Tyburn had the chance to reply.

As he passed Merton, Robert stooped down and took the ring of keys from his belt. The man gurgled like a cranky infant, but didn’t wake.

Descending the dungeon stairs for the second time took considerably more will than the first. Even though Robert knew that no fresh horrors awaited him, he still found himself jumping at shadows.

The sight of Ged sitting behind the bars—his knees drawn up to his chest, staring at nothing—was enough to replace fear with rage in a moment. Hearing Robert’s footfalls, Ged looked up. His face flooded with relief.

“Took you long enough,” he said, pushing himself to his feet.

“I was passed out,” said Robert.

He jammed the key into the lock with more force than necessary. The tumblers were rusted; the key’s teeth caught and jammed. Robert swore under his breath. He jiggled the key loose and reinserted it, more slowly this time.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to interrupt your beauty sleep,” said Ged as Robert jockeyed the lock. “How’s the hand?”

“Doctor says I’ll be back to punching people in no time.”

Ged snorted.

“Oh, the doctor said that, did he?”

“Well, not in so many words.”

Finally, the key’s teeth caught in the tumblers. The lock clicked. Robert wrenched the door open. Ged stepped through—hesitantly, head ducked, as though Robert might change his mind and shove him back inside.

Robert wanted to break Tam Tregeryth’s nose. He had to content himself with throwing the keys into the cell and slamming the door.

“I’d like to kill those bastards for locking you up,” said Robert.

Ged shook his head. “You’d be killing your allies.”

“ _You’re_ my ally.”

“You can do a lot better than me,” said Ged wryly, pointing to his collar. “Anyway, that handsome wolf of yours is a Northman. I’m lucky he didn’t have his Dogs put me down.”

“Do they hate the Keld that much in Guye?” said Robert, taken aback.

“Our ancestors raided and raped each other for centuries before their clan-leaders swore fealty to Solas in exchange for protection,” said Ged with a tired shrug. “You men of Solas might hate us on your father’s accounts, but the grudge goes back a lot longer in Guye.”

The clatter of footfalls echoed off the stone. Robert turned to see the Bustaments with one of the boys from their gang in tow. Asher swaggered after them, hands shoved in his pockets. When Robert glared at him, he smiled meltingly.

“Do you ignore everyone’s orders, or am I special?” said Robert.

“You’re not special,” said Asher cheerfully.

Robert resisted the urge to hit him. To Ged, in Keld, he said, “These are the fellows I was telling you about. They know how to take off slave collars.”

Ged’s head whipped around. He stared at Robert as though waiting for him to admit he’d made a joke. When Robert didn’t, Ged scrubbed a big hand over his face. He peered at Robert through his fingers, beseeching.

“Robert,” he said. “What in the Lady’s name are you doing?”

“Freeing you, of course. Wasn’t that what Kemp offered in exchange for your help?”

“Yes, but—” Ged broke off, at a loss for words.

“You’ve done more for this fucking revolution than half the Dogs of Guye,” said Robert, hearing how his voice shook. “You don’t have to do a damn thing more if you don’t want to, but wherever you go from here, you won’t be wearing a collar around your neck.”

Though the others couldn’t understand what Ged and Robert were saying, they seemed to get the gist. The mouse-faced boy standing between Freddie and Jordie stepped forward, rolling up his sleeve to show Ged the brand on his bony forearm. He’d been a life-slave, then, not just debt-bound like Asher and the Bustaments.

“This is Wim,” said Freddie, jerking his thumb at the boy. “He’s a runaway from the mines. Found him living rough in the Wychwood last winter. He knows about the sort of collars they use on gladiators.”

“My da was a smith,” said Wim. He had a gap between his front teeth wide enough to whistle when he spoke.

Jordie was regarding Ged with badly-disguised unease. “Can you ask him to kneel?” he said to Robert. “Otherwise we’ll need a ladder in order to reach the collar.”

Robert turned to Ged. “I hope you won’t object to kneeling for Solasans one last time?”

Ged hesitated, a riot of emotion flickering over his face. Then, slowly, he sank to his knees.

“Tell the children that I won’t hurt them,” he said to Robert in Keld.

Robert translated the message. Wim and the Bustaments didn’t even try to hide their relief.

“I’m going to explain what we’re doing while we’re doing it,” said Freddie, holding up an instrument like a miniature awl. “Don’t want him to move at the wrong time and get bits of his neck knicked off. Can you translate, Mr. Black?”

“It’ll be an opportunity for me to expand my vocabulary,” said Robert, eyeing the boys’ tools. He had no idea what any of them were called in Keld.

Fortunately Freddie’s explanations were simple enough for Robert to translate without much difficulty. He was glad, since Ged was barely listening. For all his strength, he was trembling with the strain of baring his throat to strangers. Still, when one of the boys directed him to turn this way or that, he obeyed without hesitation.

“You’ve got to tell us if it hurts,” Freddie told Ged.

“It doesn’t,” said Ged in Keld, hiding his wince.

“Yes, it does,” said Robert in Solasan. “Freddie, you’re pinching his neck.”

Ged gave Robert a look of betrayal. Still, his discomfort eased visibly when Freddie adjusted his grip.

“How much of our language do you understand?” Jordie asked Ged, curious.

Ged looked at Robert. Robert crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows.

“Some,” Ged allowed, his Solasan thickly accented but perfectly intelligible.

Freddie, Jordie, and Wim were so taken aback that they stopped fiddling with the collar to stare at him. Only Asher didn’t look surprised.

“Why don’t you speak it, then?” asked Wim.

Ged shrugged.

“Because he doesn’t want people to know he’s clever,” said Asher. Then, to Robert, “Luca does the same thing.”

“Who’s Luca?” asked Jordie.

“My beloved,” said Robert, in a tone that he hoped would discourage further inquiry.

No such luck. “Your beloved is a barbarian?” said Jordie, at the same time Freddie asked, “Is he the one who taught you to speak their language?”

“Yes and yes.”

“Is he a gladiator?” asked Jordie eagerly, as Freddie said, “Was he arrested, too?”

“Emphatically not, and no, thank the gods.” Robert didn’t want to think what would’ve happened to Luca if he’d fallen into Bors’s hands. “He’s still in Lyonesse.”

Ged looked up sharply.

“No, he isn’t,” he said. “I thought you knew. The _vúlfmáistir_ gave him to that sour-faced General.”

It took a moment for the rusty gears in Robert’s head to click together.

“Ademar gave Luca to _Balkas?_ For gods’ sakes, why?”

“Ah, Lady, I should’ve said something earlier,” said Ged, shaking his head. “I was there when the _vúlfmáistir_ gave the order to the little man in the stupid hat.”

“The Steward,” said Robert absently.

“Yeah, him. Anyway, I guess you were the one who gave the _vúlfmáistir_ the idea.”

“ _What?_ ”

“You said he ought to send the Golden Bird away.”

Robert wanted to punch the wall. He had to settle for kicking it instead.

“What’s going on?” Asher demanded.

“The King gave Luca to Balkas.”

“The General? Fuck.” Asher paused. “Isn’t that sort of a good thing, though? I mean, yeah, Luca’s in the middle of the army, but at least he’s not with the King.”

“Anywhere’s better than the _vúlfmáistir’s_ bedroom,” Ged muttered darkly.

Robert couldn’t argue with that. Besides, hadn’t Balkas said that he preferred women? Perhaps he’d leave Luca alone.

 _Gods_ , let him leave Luca alone. After eleven years of violation, Luca deserved a respite. Maybe when Robert found him a little of the life would have come back into his eyes.

And Robert would find him. He would travel the seams of the world if he had to. Let the army try to stand in his way. He would kill every last man.

Wim made a practiced twist with the tool he was using on Ged’s collar. With a _snick_ , the whole thing came away in two pieces. Robert hadn’t realized how heavy the iron was. Wim’s skinny arms tensed with the strain of holding the collar-pieces up for Ged to take.

“How does it feel to be a free man?” asked Robert.

Ged thought for a moment, then shook his head. He couldn’t stop turning the collar over in his hands.

Then, abruptly, he stood. Wim and the Bustaments startled back. Ged smiled at them, a little sadly.

“ _Taak_ ,” he said. Then, in Solasan, “Thank you.”

Carefully, Ged fitted the pieces of the collar back together so that it was once more a single band of iron. He turned to Robert.

“You still have my oath,” he said. “If you think it’s worth having.”

“And you still have mine,” Robert returned. “Three working hands between us, remember? I’m holding you to that.”

Ged’s smile was like the sun emerging from behind a bank of cloud. He stuck out his right hand—and then, remembering, switched to his left. Robert clasped it in his own. He knew that this was as sacred a seal to Ged as it was to him. Another promise that Robert would do anything to keep.

The last time Robert had been in the Warden’s office, he’d been expecting to receive a writ of execution. Entering the room now, he felt himself tense, even knowing that the threat had passed.

The scene that greeted him couldn’t have diverged more wildly from his memory. Through the fug of ale and cigarette smoke, the Dogs of Guye were gathered around the Warden’s desk like punters at a billiard table. They seemed to be playing some sort of game that involved flicking corks into tankards of ale and roaring insults at each other in a Guyish dialect so thick that Robert didn’t even bother trying to make it out.

Tam Tregeryth’s handsome head lifted from the crowd. Seeing Robert, he gave a pleased shout. He strode over and clasped Robert’s shoulder in welcome. Robert noted that his eyes skated over Ged as though he were no more worthy of notice than a fly on the wallpaper.

“Alive, then?” said Tam with a grin.

“Thanks to Ged and Dr. Quinby,” said Robert pointedly.

“Right good.” Tam jerked his thumb at the game. “Lob. You know it?”

Robert shook his head. Taking his cue from Tam, he watched as two men sighted up each others’ tankards with a cork balanced between thumb and forefinger. Wella raised a hankerchief that had seen better days and brought it down in a flash of soiled white. At that signal, the men flicked their corks.

Predictably, the shots went wide. One ricocheted off a lamp; the other arced up, hit the ceiling, and shot down to smack the head of one of the men below. He bellowed in mock outrage and launched himself at the man who’d flicked the cork. They hit the ground with a thud and proceeded to wale on each other while their fellows cheered them on.

“Daft manks,” said Tam fondly, shaking his head.

“What happens if the cork goes in?” asked Robert.

“Ah, well,” said Wella sagely, “then the man who threw the cork has to finish everyone’s ale.”

“Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”

They stared at him with blank incomprehension. Wella scratched his head.

“Never mind,” said Robert.

Tam grabbed the flagon of ale to refill his tankard. Then he filled a second tankard until thick foam fizzed over the brim. He pushed it into Robert’s hand.

“To new friends,” said Tam, raising his tankard.

“To new friends,” Robert echoed.

The clank of their tankards sent foam sudsing down Robert’s arm. He took a swig, suppressing a shudder as the bitter spume hit the back of his throat. Tam smacked his lips in appreciation and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

“So,” he said, “what can me and mine do for Robert Argent?”

“Robert Black now, sir,” Wella supplied.

“Robert _Black?_ ” said Tam, raising his eyebrows. “Ah, but that’s nobody’s name. Argent, now, that’s a name with power in’t. Argents is royalty.”

“Argents _is_ royalty,” Wella agreed.

The exchange was staged to seem casual, but Robert had spent a year in the snake pit of Highcourt. He knew otherwise.

“Do you know my grandfather?” he asked, trying to match their nonchalance.

“Only by talk,” said Tam. “Powerful man, the Grand Chancellor. Almost as powerful as the False King.”

At the mention of the King, Wella spat. It landed just a little too close to Robert’s boot.

“I’m hardly a credit to the family name,” said Robert, setting his tankard down.

Tam’s smile was as radiant as always. For the first time, Robert noticed that it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“My clan, the Tregeryths,” Tam said. “You heard of us in Lyonesse?”

“I can’t say the name rings a bell,” said Robert cautiously.

Tam seemed to expect this. He nodded, running a hand over the golden stubble on his chin.

“Old clan. Ancient. Our shield’s been hanging at Castle Guye since the days when Highcourt was nought but a green for sheep to graze on. It’ll be hanging there still when sheep are grazing on that green again.” He gave a bark of rueful laughter. “’Course, if I tried to petition the Star Chamber they’d have me thrown out as if I were no better than some Midland peasant. Same as they tried to do Conwenna.”

“Kenever’s mother.”

“My cousin,” said Tam. “Her maiden name was Tregeryth.”

Robert exhaled slowly. “I didn’t know that.”

“No, I’d expect not,” said Tam. “I expect there’s a lot the Grand Chancellor’s grandson didn’t learn in his lessons.”

The words sounded inoffensive enough, but Robert heard the challenge in them. Behind his charm, Tam’s beautiful smile was all teeth.

“My mother was a Docktown whore,” said Robert evenly. “My lessons were more comprehensive than you can imagine.”

A ripple of shock disarraged Tam’s placid features. Then he lifted his shoulders in a shrug.

“Bastard you might be,” he said, “but you’ve still got Roland’s blood.”

“Kenever’s Red Right Hand should know that in the eyes of the lords of Lyonesse, tainted royal lineage is worse than no royal lineage at all,” said Robert through gritted teeth.

Robert had been half-prepared for Tam to lunge for his throat. Instead he threw back his head and laughed. Robert was thrown so off-guard that when Tam clapped his shoulder, it was an exercise of will not to flich.

“Right true!” said Tam cheerfully. “Anyway, you’re just a traitor like the rest of us now. Aren’t you, Robert Black?”

A ghostlike pain shivered through Robert’s right hand. He imagined that he could feel the wound that hot iron had etched in his skin. The blackened edges of the letter that he would wear for the rest of his life.

Robert was saved from having to respond by the arrival of Alfred, Hal, and the highwaymen. Sea salt caked the folds of their coats and the lines of exhaustion that creased their faces. They smelled of horse and wind and moved with the bowlegged stiffness of men whose feet hadn’t met solid ground for days.

“We lost them,” said Alfred gruffly, not bothering with preliminaries.

The mood of the room shifted at once. Tankards of ale vanished, cigarettes were extinguished, and shirts and jackets were retrieved from corners. With soldierly efficiency, the Dogs cleared the Warden’s desk. A map of Solas was produced and spread corner to corner, its curling edges weighted down with the Warden’s collection of confiscated ashtrays.

“Me and Hal were here,” said Alfred, pointing to the jagged line that represented the western shore. “We saw two figures on horseback below, riding like the rats of hell were after them. By the time we got our horses down the slope, they’d vanished into the hills. That’s where we met up with Tyburn’s lot,” he said, nodding at the highwaymen.

“We cut ’em off from the King’s Road, but they’re fleet riders, and their horses were fresh,” said one of the highwaymen, shaking his head. “Once they lit out into open country we couldn’t keep pace.”

“At least we know they’re not headed to Lyonesse,” said Alfred. “The Road is as far for them now as Hythe.” He indicated a lonely outcropping a few hundred miles up the coast. “Their best bet is to catch up with Balkas’s company on the march to Redditch,” he went on, pointing at the garrison marker on the edge of the Midlands. “It should only take them a week on the outside if they keep pace and their horses don’t give out.”

Without stopping to think, Robert said, “We should go after them.”

That suggestion was greeted with incredulity. Even Alfred was clearly struggling not to roll his eyes.

“Balkas is marching several hundred of the Regiment’s best through open country,” said Alfred. “We might as well hang ourselves now and save them the trouble.”

“If Arkwright and Davies catch up to Balkas, he’ll bring the Regiment down on us either way,” said Robert.

“Maybe,” said Tam. “But maybe not.”

Seeing Robert’s confusion, Alfred said, “Kenever’s army has been wrecking merry hell in the Midlands. We’ve taken a few towns—small towns, mind you, but the Regiment can’t survive without the food and weapons the peasants supply. If it’s a choice between turning his men around and marching to Absalom or carrying on to Redditch—”

“You think he’ll choose Redditch?”

“I’m not a fishwife telling fortunes with herring bones,” said Alfred irritably. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Balkas keeps course, is all. He’s got a reputation for being a stubborn bastard.”

“But either way, Balkas is sure to send word to Lyonesse,” said Robert. “What happened here won’t be a secret for long.”

“Could be months before they come knocking on our door,” said Tam, rubbing his chin.

“Or it could be weeks,” said Robert. “We’d be fools to count on a longer timeline. Either way, our supplies of food and drink won’t last forever. And speaking of drink…”

“The entire keep’s potted,” Alfred finished, scowling.

“Ah, it’s only natural to want for a bit of celebrating,” said Wella earnestly.

“Besides,” Tam added, “if the gods didn’t want us to drink all that ale, why’d they put so many barrels of it in the cellar?”

The Dogs all elbowed each other and murmured agreement.

Alfred clearly had no patience for the Dogs of Guye, and nearly as little for Tam Tregeryth. “What happens when the prisoners sober up, see the guards, and decide it’s time for a second course of revenge?” he snapped.

“Ah, drink makes fast friends,” said Tam, waving his hand.

“And hangover makes even faster enemies,” said Robert. “Look, I hate to play schoolmaster, but Alfred’s right. We’re in the middle of a delicate situation, and we don’t exactly have the resources to stop a massacre.”

“All right, Robert Black,” said Tam, folding his arms. “What d’you suggest?”

Robert ran his hand through his hair. “If we’re going to keep peace, we need to give these men common cause,” he said, thinking aloud. “And if we’re going to keep Absalom, we need to prepare for another battle, with a real army this time.”

“Well, there’s your common cause,” said Alfred.

“Survival,” Robert agreed. “We have to ready the keep and teach the men to fight. Absalom was a fortress once, but it’s been a hundred years since it’s seen war.”

“We seiged Cathar Lough when I was fighting with Kenever in the Territories,” said Alfred. “Hal, you’ll remember that. And you, Tregeryth. There’s three ways an army can break into a stronghold like this: over the walls, under the walls, or through the walls.”

“At Cathar Lough, we went through,” said Tam, nodding. “Brought the walls down with us, too. But you need men for that. A lot of men.”

“And Ademar has barely enough troops to hold the Midlands,” said Robert. “We took Absalom by identifying the keep’s weak points and splitting our numbers in order to hit them all at once. If I had the Regiment’s resources, I’d do the same.”

“Attack by land and sea,” said Tam.

“Seem like you’re coming from everywhere at once,” said Alfred.

“Just like we did,” said Robert. “Try to overwhelm the enemy in the first sally and pray to the gods there won’t be a second.”

“Absalom’s got a lot more weak points now than it did before we got here,” Alfred pointed out. “There’s a hole in the armory big enough to sail a ship through, for one thing. That gate’s seen better days. And the ramparts have been a birds’ outhouse for a hundred years at least.”

“Holes can be fixed, and gates,” said Tam. “Me, I’d worry about running out of food. When men have to start eating rats and candle-ends, the fight goes out of them quick.”

“Without a supply line, we need to make sure it’s a short fight,” said Robert. “So. Rebuild the wall. Fortify the gate.”

“Dig a trench ’round the place while you’re at it,” Tam put in.

“D’you think we have the stuff to build a catapult?” asked Tam, a note of longing in his voice. “Always did like a catapult, me.”

Suddenly, Wella said, “That barbarian’s got his collar off.”

The room turned to stare at Ged. He froze, his eyes darting from side to side like a rabbit in a snare.

“I freed him,” said Robert.

There was a moment of silence. Then everyone started shouting at once.

Robert moved quickly to stand in front of Ged. Instinct told him to draw his sword, but he ignored it. Ged was right; these men were still his allies, even if they were looking at Ged like they wanted to tear him apart.

“Ged was one of Kemp’s agents at Highcourt,” said Robert, using Grandfather’s trick of speaking over people without seeming to shout. “He’s risked his life for Kenever a thousand times over. Kemp promised him his freedom, and Roland himself would agree that he’s earned it.”

“He’ll kill us all in our sleep!” Wella cried.

“That would take a very long time,” Robert pointed out. “I’m reasonably certain that at some point, someone would wake up.”

“It’s a fool who springs a bear from a trap,” said Tam, shaking his head. “Beasts don’t know reason.” He made a noise of disgust. “Ah, but you’re soft in Lyonesse. In Guye, we carry our grandfathers’ memories. We know well what it is to sleep with a sword in our hands. To see our lands burned, our children killed, our women taken. Aye, we’ve not forgotten the old days. Not forgiven them, either.”

“Ged isn’t responsible for the sins of his people,” said Robert.

“Who is, then?” Tam demanded.

Robert didn’t have an answer for that. He’d been raised on tales of barbarian savagery; he could only imagine what horrors the soldiers in this room had seen.

But the Keld had seen horrors, too. Solas might not call it savagery, but Robert couldn’t think of another word to describe what had been done to Ged and Luca. What Robert’s countrymen had done. What they were still doing, even now.

Without warning, Ged took a step forward. At once, every man reached for his weapon.

Ged raised his hands to show that they were empty. In halting, careful Solasan, he said, “I have give to Robert Black my oath.”

Tam’s hand, clenched on the hilt of his sword, relaxed a fraction. Without taking his eyes off Ged, he asked Robert, “That true?”

“Yes. And I gave him mine.”

Tam and Alfred looked at each other.

“Barbarians don’t fuck around about oaths,” said Alfred.

“Practically religious about it,” Tam agreed. “Even if they are godless bastards.”

He turned back to Robert, eyes narrowed.

“All right, Robert Black,” he said. “You’ve uncollared an animal; we’ll suffer it to live. On one condition.”

“Name it.”

Tam pointed his finger at Ged. “When that thing gives in to its bloody nature—and I say _when_ , mind—you’ll be the one to put it down.”

“Just say it,” Ged murmured in Keld, soft enough that only Robert knew he’d spoken at all. And then, desperately, “ _Please._ ”

Robert could hear Ged’s ragged breathing. He could hear his own heart punching at his chest, thrumming with fury, or maybe grief. Robert couldn’t tell the two apart anymore.

“I promise,” said Robert, meeting Tam’s eyes. “If it comes to that, I’ll kill the barbarian myself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used Inkarnate to make this map! It's not a great map (due entirely to my lack of skill), but hopefully it's better than no map.
> 
> Now that I've figured out how to add images to posts, I'll also be going back to previous chapters and adding the incredible art made by the incredibly talented Fensalir.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of people are having trouble keeping up with the increasingly dense political intrigue (completely understandably!), so I've added a very Web 1.0 tree to this chapter to help readers keep track of the various sprawling royal branches. Ademar is the King; Kenever is his late father's much younger half-brother. I hope this helps!

Robert waited until he’d left the Warden’s office to let out the snarl of frustration that had been building in his chest. It echoed eerily off the darkening walls of the keep, a noise more animal than human.

 _You’re supposed to be the civilized one_ , he reminded himself, and had to choke down a shard of laughter almost too sharp to swallow.

Alfred and Ged had followed Robert down the stairs. They now stood a careful distance apart, pointedly not looking at each other.

“I’ve not had the pleasure of Tregeryth’s company since we served together at Cathar Lough,” said Alfred, knocking the salt from his coat. “He hasn’t changed a bit. But then, I suppose men like that never do.”

“Men like that?”

“Heroes,” said Alfred. “You know, them that stride among us mere mortals like giants.”

“That’s a pretty way of putting it,” Robert muttered.

“Yeah, well, giants have big feet,” said Alfred with a shrug. “And they don’t much bother about who they boot around. Would you, from such a height?”

“I’d like to think so, yes.” Robert kicked at a loose bit of mortar. “I suppose giants can’t be expected to bother with social niceties either.”

Alfred laughed. “What did you want him to say?”

“I don’t know. ‘Good work on the jailbreak, Robert? Thank you for saving me from certain death by torture? I’m sorry I locked up your friend?’”

“Tregeryth’s not that type,” said Alfred, shaking his head. “You’ll die of old age waiting for gratitude. Or an apology, for that matter.”

“And that’s how Kenever’s great commander leads, is it?” said Robert, disgusted.

“Yeah, it is,” said Alfred. “And he’s taken a tiny army from a vassal state most folks couldn’t find on a map and sent one of the most powerful militaries in the world sprawling on its ass. You don’t have to like Tregeryth, but you’d be a fool to dismiss him.”

“He’s right,” said Ged in Keld. When Robert shot him a look of betrayal, he put up his hands. “Lady forgive me, but your Kenever’s done in a decade what Kel couldn’t in a century. If he’s got your handsome Northman to thank, then it might be worth picking up a few things. From a distance, in my case,” he added ruefully.

“What’s he saying?” Alfred demanded, eyeing Ged with suspicion.

“He’s agreeing with you,” said Robert, rubbing his forehead. “Look, if it’s any defense, Tam doesn’t like me any more than I like him. He seems to have some very strong feelings about my family line.”

“Well, yeah,” said Alfred. “Taking Ademar out of the equation, you’re fourth up for the throne.”

Alfred might as well have punched him in the stomach. Robert stared at him, flabbergasted.

“I—what? That can’t be right.”

“You really never paid attention to your grandfather’s family tree, did you?” said Alfred, rolling his eyes. “Roland’s living male descendents are Kenever, Ademar, the three Carlyles, and you.”

“ _Three_ Carlyles?” said Robert, frowning. “I thought Princess Amelia and the Duke of Chesten had two sons, Edmund and Rafe.”

“Nah, there’s a third. He must be, what, eighteen now? I heard he’s a hunchback. Or a moron. Pox-eaten, maybe? Nobody knows much about him.” Alfred shrugged, dismissing the mystery Carlyle as irrelevant. “Anyway, that whole branch of the tree is dead loyal to Ademar.”

“So if Kenever’s establishing his own line, I would be—”

“His natural heir, yeah.”

Robert had the distinct feeling that the ground was dissolving under him. “But I’m a bastard,” he said, grasping for solid land.

Alfred shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Your grandfather’s formally acknowledged you. Even if he disowns you now, there’s an official record of royal descent.”

“But—” Robert scrubbed his hand over his face. “Alfred, I really don’t want to be king.”

“Smart man,” said Alfred. “Dunno how mental you’d have to be to actually _want_ the job. I’ve slogged through blood and shit up to my knees for Solas, and I wouldn’t sit on that throne if you paid me a million gold.”

“So Kenever’s mental, then?”

“Kenever’s a soldier,” Alfred said. “He knows what it means to sacrifice yourself for your people. If Ademar was just a little less crazy, I guarantee Kenever would be happily retired and living out his middle years a hero instead of waging war for a kingdom that an actuary wouldn’t insure for love or money.”

 _But I’m not a soldier_ , Robert thought. He wasn’t even a mercenary. He was in love. Not with a kingdom. Just a boy, one boy, who Robert would do anything to protect.

“Look, Kenever’s young, isn’t he?” said Robert. “He could still find a wife. Have children. A lot of children.” Several dozen children, by Robert’s preference. Just to be on the safe side.

Alfred sucked his cheek. He started to speak, stopped himself. Then, clearly choosing his words carefully, he said, “Haven’t you ever wondered why Kenever isn’t married already?”

The question brought Robert up short. He never wondered why anyone wasn’t married. It had always just seemed like the self-evidently preferable state.

“Well, Kenever was an officer,” said Robert, casting around for an explanation. “ They’re not allowed to wed.”

“Kenever’s hardly bound by the rules of the military he’s at war with,” said Alfred. “He could’ve married anytime during the last ten years. Would’ve been a smart move, too. Find a reji’s daughter from Enkaare or a fat Lübeckin princess whose father can sponsor a fleet. Hell, even some country girl with big tits who can give him a son.”

Robert had to admit he had a point. Taking a wife would give Kenever a clear advantage over Ademar. Ademar hated women; he’d banned even highborn ladies from appearing at Highcourt. Even his closest Privy Councilors had given up trying to arrange a match after Ademar had the last hopeful beheaded.

“But for all that,” said Alfred, “the Prince of Guye remains a bachelor.”

“Like me,” said Robert, comprehension dawning.

“Yeah,” said Alfred. “Like you.”

Robert hesitated. Then, carefully, he said, “Once, when my cousin Francis was very drunk, he made a joke about Kenever and Tam Tregeryth.”

“I wouldn’t repeat it,” said Alfred, voice dark with warning.

“No,” said Robert, “I don’t think I will.” He shook his head to clear it. “Well, if Kenever is looking for an heir, someone ought to tell him that I would make a very bad choice.”

“How d’you figure?”

“My mother was a whore! I grew up in a brothel!”

“Your father was a prince. You have a gentleman’s education.”

“I’m obnoxious,” said Robert desperately. “Everyone says so. I’m stubborn and impulsive and given to fits of unforgivable rudeness. I spill ink on all my clothes. I’ve killed more people than I can count. I’m constitutionally disinclined towards women. And I’m in love with a barbarian.”

Alfred rolled his eyes. “No one cares if a king keeps a whore,” he said, with such disgust that the gorge rose in Robert’s throat.

Before he had time to think, Robert’s hand was on the hilt of his sword. Seeing, Alfred went to draw his knife.

Both had moved by reflex, but it was a reflex that couldn’t be taken back. For a long moment, they did nothing but watch each other.

Robert was the first to speak. Keeping his voice level, he said, “Talk about Luca like that again and I swear by the gods that whatever bonds we have between us will not be enough to keep me from answering with violence.”

A muscle twitched in Alfred’s jaw. His eyes were narrowed to slits.

“So that’s how it is, eh?” he said quietly.

“Yes,” said Robert. “That’s how it is.”

Alfred exhaled through his teeth. Then, casually, deliberately, he raised his hand from his knife and scratched his chin.

“The gods must’ve thought it a fine joke to make boyfuckers out of half the royal family,” he muttered.

“Call it quality control,” said Robert. “We’d all make terrible parents.”

When Robert reached for his sword, adrenaline had surged through him. Now, removing his hand from the hilt, he had to take deep, measured breaths to calm his racing heart.

“Look, I know that Khalkeus promised you the boy, but I have to be straight with you,” said Alfred. “Any hope our outfit could spring the King’s favorite died with the network at Highcourt.”

“Then it’s a good thing Luca isn’t at Highcourt,” said Robert. “Ademar gave him to General Balkas. His Majesty’s idea of a joke, I think.”

Alfred threw up his hands. “So _that’s_ why you’re so keen to go tearing off after the Regiment! Gods above, Robert Black, you’ll be the fucking death of me. You realize it’s not just your life that you’d forfeit on that fool’s errand?”

“Nobody has to come with me,” said Robert, feeling like a scolded child. “I can make my way to Balkas on my own.”

Alfred snapped “The hell you will,” at the same time Ged said in Keld, “You’re not going anywhere without me.”

With his usual perverse timing, Asher appeared at the top of the stairwell

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“To steal Robert’s boy back from General Balkas, apparently,” said Alfred.

“Great. When do we leave?”

“You are _not_ coming!” Robert shouted.

“Good luck trying to stop me,” Asher snorted.

Robert made an abortive strangling motion. “You are all completely infuriating,” he informed them.

“Robert, be reasonable,” said Alfred. “You can hardly go tearing off after the boy on your own. You’re a wanted man now, and a one-handed one at that. How exactly do you plan to take on an entire battalion?”

“Very cleverly,” said Robert. “With, you know. Tactics. Strategy. That sort of thing.”

Ged shook his head. In Keld, he said, “One man against hundreds? It can’t be done. Believe me, I’ve thought about it. But you’ll be cut down in a second. Your death won’t mean anything. And there’s no one else who cares what happens to the one you want to save.”

There was nothing Robert could say to that. Instead he kicked the piece of loose mortar against the wall. It dissolved in a cloud of stone dust.

“What’d he say?” Alfred demanded.

“That I’d be committing suicide for no good reason.”

“Oh,” said Alfred, clearly put out to be agreeing with Ged. “Well, he’s right.”

Asher touched Robert’s arm. “Luca’s smart and tough,” he said. “He’ll be okay. Besides, he’s waited for you before, hasn’t he?”

“Yes, for too damn long.” Robert ran his fingers through his hair, noting distantly that it was almost long enough to pull back. “Scald the land, I hate making him wait.”

“He knows you’re coming for him,” said Asher. “He trusts you. You made a promise. But you can’t keep it if you’re dead. And you made a promise to the rest of us too, remember? We’ve stolen time from the gods and we’re going to make ourselves legends. Well, we can’t do that without you. So until you’ve got a plan—a _good_ plan—you’re not going anywhere.”

Robert looked at Asher—Asher, who’d risked his life to find Robert instead of escaping to safety with Madame Karga and Elif. Who kept watch at Robert’s bedside for three days while he was unconscious. Who finally trusted Robert enough to tell him that he was half-deaf.

 _When did you grow up, little brother?_ Robert thought.

Of course he could never say that aloud. Not to Asher. They were both still Docktown boys at heart. The first time Aunt Mina tried to hug Robbie, he’d been so alarmed that he sank his teeth into her arm. Asher was the same; he’d grown up with a robust vocabulary for violence, but few words for affection. Even fewer for love.

So instead Robert grabbed Asher’s good ear and tweaked it. Asher slapped his hand away and tried to throw an elbow into his ribs, which Robert dodged easily.

“Git,” said Asher.

“Brat,” Robert returned. “All right, you’ve convinced me. I won’t go tearing off after Luca until I have a plan.”

 _But the second I do_ , _none of you will be able to stop me_.

Robert turned to Ged. “Have you seen a doctor?” he asked in Keld.

Ged shook his head. “I’m fine, though. Bumps and scrapes is all.”

“You really think you’re going to get off that easy after tricking me into the infirmary?” Robert snorted. “Not a chance.” To Asher, he said, “Can you take Ged to Quinby? He needs looking after.”

“Sure. I need to get my bandage changed anyway.”

Ged made a bitten-off noise of protest. He looked at Asher like a cornered creature might a steel-springed trap before casting Robert a look of appeal.

“You can trust him,” said Robert in Keld. “He’d knee Tam Tregeryth in the balls before he let a friend of mine come to harm.”

Ged looked a little reassured at that. Still, as he followed Asher down the hall, he kept looking back at Robert over his shoulder. Seeing, Asher turned and tugged at Ged’s sleeve.

“Hey,” he said, “d’you know any good curse words in barbarian? Luca always told me there aren’t any, but I think he was lying.”

A wary smile crept over Ged’s face. In Solasan, he said, “I know a few.”

They disappeared down the stairs, the echo of Asher’s chatter mingling with Ged’s shy baritone. Robert exhaled in relief. He turned back to Alfred, who was regarding him with narrowed eyes.

“You know that to free a life slave you need a writ of manumission—”

“—signed by a magistrate,” said Robert. “Yes, thank you, I did go to school. I’ll put finding a magistrate on my ever-growing to-do list.” He met Alfred’s reproving gaze. “You agree with Tam, don’t you? You think freeing Ged was a mistake.”

Alfred scrubbed a hand over his chin. He really was exhausted; his face was ashen, eyes sunk in their sockets.

“No soldier comes back from the Territories with any love for his kind,” he said. “Still, if he was going to slit your throat, he’s had no end of opportunities.”

“And yet my throat remains unslit.”

“I’ve noticed. That doesn’t mean I trust him.”

“You trusted him enough to fight with him.”

“That’s different. You can always trust a barbarian to fight. With you, against you, it’s all the same to them. But loyalty? Real loyalty? To a Solasan? You might as well ask a fish to fly.”

Robert shook his head. “You don’t know him.”

“Neither do you. And you don’t know your boy, either.” Alfred held up his hands as Robert began to protest at volume. “Robert. _Robert!_ Shut up and listen to me. I’ve seen the lad, and yeah, he’s really something, but for gods’ sakes, use the head on your shoulders for once. If it was you stuck in that brothel with that greedy maggot for a master, and a nice young lord came along—a little lost, maybe, a little lonely—what d’you think you’d do? You’d tell him whatever he wanted to hear.”

“You think Luca’s playing me?”

“I think that when you’re drowning, you grab whatever floats. A boy like that hasn’t survived this long on enemy land without learning how to twist a man’s feelings in his favor.”

That idea was so absurd that Robert would have laughed if outrage hadn’t choked him.

“You have no idea how wrong you are,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Maybe,” said Alfred. “Maybe he really does love you. Maybe he just thinks he does. But how much are you willing to gamble on a maybe?”

Robert didn’t even have to think. “Everything,” he said.

“Well, I think you’re an idiot.”

“So does half of Lyonesse. You’re in good company.”

In the same moment, they both realized that they were leaning into each others’ faces and shouting. Their voices rang off the high stone ceilings. Alfred made a noise of disgust and spun away, fingers flexing in and out of fists at his sides.

Robert leaned against the wall. His hair had fallen into his face again. He pushed it back, wishing it was long enough to tie up. Wishing that he’d never let Grandfather have it cut in the first place. Luca had always liked Robert’s hair. Sometimes he’d go to brush back the loose strands and then pull away with a flinch of apology. Robert would catch Luca’s wrist and kiss his fingertips.

_There’s no part of me that you can’t touch, sweetheart. No part where I haven’t dreamed about being touched by you._

“When did you see Luca?” Robert asked, trying to keep his voice even.

“What?”

“You said you’d seen him. When?”

For a moment, he thought Alfred wasn’t going to answer. Then Alfred pinched the skin between his brows, closed his eyes, and said in a rush, “I was with your grandfather when he went to the brothel. He ordered me to bring the boy to Highcourt.” He opened his eyes to see Robert glaring at him. “Look, if I’d refused, he would’ve just sacked me and had someone else do it.”

“But you didn’t refuse,” said Robert.

“No, I didn’t,” said Alfred. He paused, working his jaw. Then he said “D’you want to hit me?”

“Yes,” said Robert.

“All right. You get one shot, open hand, and if anyone asks, I let you do it.”

Alfred turned to present his cheek, squeezed his eyes shut, and planted his stance. He braced like a fighter: chin tucked, jaw set, shoulders up. Just like Harrow had taught Robbie as soon as he was old enough to stand.

 _You’ll thank me someday, my lad_ , he said cheerfully, reaching down to pull Robbie up from the floor. _Let’s try again. This time when you see my fist coming, don’t flinch._

Robert looked down at his left hand. It was almost as large and scarred as Harrow’s now.

After several seconds of not being hit, Alfred slit one eye open.

“What’s the problem?”

“I can’t do it,” Robert admitted.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re my _friend_ , you enormous fucking asshole!”

Alfred blinked at him. “Oh. I—oh.”

There was a long awkward moment during which they both cleared their throats and avoided each others’ eyes.

At last, Alfred said, “Do you want a cigarette?”

With all the feeling he could muster, Robert replied, “Great and little _gods_ , yes.”

The salt wind lashing Alfred’s coat had seeped through the carton in his pocket; the cigarettes had dried in warped shapes, like fingers broken and reset. The tobacco was stale and lit with a papery snap. Inhaling, bitterness seared Robert’s mouth. Still, the rush of nicotine was so heady he had to lean back against the wall.

They smoked in silence. Robert thought of the dockworkers who dredged the quay after a drowning; they breathed through rubber hoses, sucking in long, deep drags like Robert and Alfred were doing now.

Abruptly, Alfred said, “Me and Hal brought Hugo’s body with us to the coast.”

He was rolling the end of the cigarette between his fingers, eyes fixed on the small fire at its lip.

“Did you?” said Robert. His mouth had gone dry; the words came out rougher than he’d intended.

“Yeah. We gave him to the sea. Like you said.”

A fine shiver of ash flaked from the tip of Robert’s cigarette. Was he shaking? He forced himself to go still.

“Thank you,” he said.

Alfred nodded. “I said a few words. Nothing fancy, mind. Not as nice as you would’ve done. Just that he was a good man, there was people who loved him, and he’s earned his place in the Hall of Rest.”

As he spoke, Robert was struck by a bright spear of memory. It was the end of term their first year at University; Robert and Val were studying for their final exams. Hugo burst into the flat and demanded to know why they were wasting such a fine day with their noses in their books. He and Robert dragged Val to the quay and paid a dog-faced man a penny to rent a little boat that looked only a little more sea-worthy than a tin can. Hugo left Robert and Val to figure out the oars while he shouted poetry at the cannery girls they passed on the dock. They wallowed in circles while the cannery girls laughed at them. Eventually they gave up and spent the rest of the afternoon getting potted on the champagne Hugo had stowed away in his satchel. Val fell asleep on the prow and a seagull dropped a half-digested crab into his mouth. Hugo fell into the water three times and had to be rescued. They all drank too much and got sun poisoning, even Val, who insisted that he was too dark. They were so hungover by the time they got back to campus that they all passed out on top of each other on the living room floor.

It was one of the best days of Robert’s life.

Alfred cleared his throat.

“Anyway. Sorry you couldn’t be there, what with being unconscious and all.”

Pain nipped at Robert’s fingertips. He looked down to see that his cigarette had burned down to the end.

“You’re the person I would’ve chosen to send in my stead,” said Robert, pinching the fire out.

“Yeah?” said Alfred. “Thanks. I know what he meant to you.”

 _No, you don’t_ , Robert thought. No one knew except Val, and he was like a figment from another lifetime. As unreachable as the past itself.

Alfred took a final drag of his cigarette before tossing it down and grinding it out under his boot. He pushed himself off the wall and started to walk away. Then he spun back around.

“Look, this is my last word,” he said. “You’ve got a good heart, Robert. Better than mine. But you’re a fool to trust barbarians. You think they’re faithful, but they’re just patient. They’ll run the second they can.”

He left before Robert could reply.

Night had come to the infirmary. The buzz of activity lulled to a drowsy murmur. Hearing the soft sounds of sleep from the rows of cots, Robert felt his own lids grow heavy.

He shook himself. _No,_ he thought sternly. He’d slept enough.

Robert’s first stop was to check in on Billy Myles, but he was still asleep. Pain had found him in his dreams; the sheets were tangled around his legs, and he’d tossed his head off the pillow. Carefully, not wanting to disturb him further, Robert smoothed the sheets and readjusted the pillow. Billy went stiff for a moment before settling back into the bed with a small sigh. He murmured something. It might’ve been _thank you._

Robert found Quinby and Ged behind the curtain of one of the makeshift exam rooms. Ged was sitting on a table, stripped to the waist. Robert’s breath caught when he saw the map of bruises across his torso, livid black and plum fading into green at the edges. Quinby was applying a salve that glistened like melted candlewax. It made the dense web of scars look even more pronounced.

Gods, how many times had Ged felt the edge of a blade? Hundreds? Thousands?

Thankfully, Ged didn’t seem to be in pain now. Seeing Robert, he grinned.

“Your healer is basting me like a roast pig,” he said cheerfully in Keld.

“If he wanted to cook you, he’d have to use a barge pole as a spit,” Robert returned. To Quinby, in Solasan, he said, “How’s the patient?”

Instead of answering himself, Quinby gave Ged a prompting look.

“My ribs,” said Ged, in careful Solasan. “It…factored?”

“Fractured,” Quinby corrected. “You have a hairline fracture of one of your vertebrochondral ribs. In your language, you’d call this injury… _bisthár_?”

“ _Bristehárst_ ,” Ged corrected, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“ _Bristehárst_ ,” Quinby repeated. “My _r’_ s are too soft, aren’t they? Your language uses an uvular fricative almost like Northern Baktrian. I shall have to practice.”

“You know Keld?” said Robert, astonished.

“Only a few words here and there,” said Quinby. “Most of the gladiators didn’t speak Solasan. I tried to pick up as much of their vocabulary as I could, but I still have much to learn. Ged has generously agreed to teach me.”

He and Ged exchanged the tentative smiles of new allies. To Robert, in Keld, Ged said, “He’s all right, for a wolf.”

Robert laughed. “Yes, I’m glad we picked him up. I don’t think I’ve ever liked a doctor so much in my life.” Switching back to Solasan, he asked, “Where’s Asher?”

“Young Mr. Lacey fidgeted through a bandage change and then ran off with Jordie Bustament,” said Quinby.

“Typical,” Robert muttered. To Ged, he said, “He should’ve stayed with you.”

“Nah, I told him to go,” said Ged. “He’s got energy like a jackrabbit, that one. Try to keep him too long in one place and he’ll start making mischief. Anyway, I can tell the girl is sweet on him.”

Robert frowned. Girl?

He didn’t have the chance to ask. Quinby gave a well-mannered little cough, too polite to interrupt.

“I cede the floor,” said Robert, with his best Highcourt bow.

High spots of pink appeared on Quinby’s cheeks. Robert didn’t think he was used to being teased.

To Ged, Quinby said, “Fortunately, the fracture is mild. I’m going to leave your ribs unbound because I don’t want to limit your breathing. With rest and salve, the fracture should heal on its own over the next few weeks. I’ve already given you an injection of a long-acting painkiller, the same as I gave Robert, and I’ll give you another once this dose wears off. My priority is to keep you as free of pain as possible.”

As Quinby spoke, Robert watched Ged to make sure that he was following. At a few points, Ged glanced at Robert and Quinby paused so that Robert could translate. When Quinby finished, Ged nodded to show that he understood.

“ _Taak_ ,” he said. “I thank you.”

Quinby hesitated, glancing at Robert. “Ged, I’d like to ask you some questions about your time at Highcourt. Would you rather we be alone?”

Ged shook his head. “ _Skjöldswn_ ,” he said, nodding at Robert. Then, in Solasan, “We fight together. Like brother and brother. He stay.”

 _Skjöldswn._ Shieldsworn. _When the_ skjöldswn _fight, they’re like one mind with two bodies_ , Luca had said when Robbie asked him what the word meant. _His enemies are your enemies. You’d die for him, and he for you._

 _Are we shieldsworn, then?_ Robbie asked, and Luca laughed.

_Don’t be silly, Robbie. I’m no warrior._

What Robbie should have said—what Robert wished he’d said—was, _You are a warrior. You’re braver than I’ll ever be._

Robert thought of the vision that came to him in the deep. Golden hair tangled with twigs. A voice calling his name.

 _When the_ skjöldswn _fight, they’re like one mind with two bodies…_

Quinby’s light, precise voice brought Robert back to the present. He was asking Ged, “Were you ever given an injection of medicine that made your heart beat very quickly?”

Ged’s face went dark. “ _Wrachvreft_ ,” he hissed in Keld. To Robert, he said, “Bad magic. The needle made us die and live again. Our wounds healed, but too fast. Every time, the Lady spun her wheel. Men went to her with blue lips and blood in their eyes. Tell the doctor I won’t be bewitched like that again. I’d rather die.”

Robert had no fucking idea how to translate that. It sounded like the raving of a madman. But then he remembered the marks on Luca’s thigh.

Rage welled up in Robert—futile, thwarted rage, with no real object but himself. As he fumbled to translate, Quinby looked horribly unsurprised.

“I’m sorry to say that that’s not a bad description,” he sighed. “Velox is incredibly hard on the body, but it does produce incredible healing effects. If the patient survives.” Seeing Ged’s expression, he hastened to add, “Please don’t mistake me—even I had access to Velox, I would never administer it. What Elmsworth did to you was monstrous.”

Ged had been gripping the exam table with white-knuckled hands. Now he relaxed, relief washing over his face.

“I’m sure it won’t surprise you to hear that there are serious side effects associated with Velox,” Quinby went on. “Even a single dose has the potential to permanently weaken the ventricles and arteries of the heart. Thankfully, you show no signs of cyanosis or swelling, and your heartbeat sounds normal—which is nothing short of miraculous, frankly.”

“See? Not even your wolf magic can kill a warrior of Isar,” Ged said to Robert, puffing out his chest.

Robert laughed and translated. But Quinby didn’t look amused.

“I don’t wish to scare you, but it may be too soon to celebrate,” he said. “There haven’t been any long-term studies of the effects of Velox in human patients.” Under his breath, he added, “Because it wasn’t meant to be _used_ on human patients.” Then he went on, “With your permission, I’d like to meet regularly so that I can monitor your condition. In order to safeguard your health, I recommend that you reduce stress and abstain from strenuous activity—”

Ged and Robert both burst out laughing.

“Yes, well,” Quinby sighed, “it was worth a try.”

“Tell the healer I’ll try not to toss and turn in my sleep, but that’s the best I can do,” said Ged, grabbing his tunic. “And ask him if we can have a drink. Lady knows we deserve it.”

A mild wind swept through the archer’s balcony, carrying with it the carol of the whales that spumed silver against the night sky. Moonlight gleamed on the bottle of ale and on the flat of Ged’s knife as he used the tip to prise out the cork. Quinby had granted reluctant permission for Ged and Robert to drink— _one_ drink, he’d said, which Robert and Ged agreed was a conveniently subjective amount that lent itself to interpretation in the broadest possible terms.

The cork came out with a pop. Ged tossed it over the side of the balcony to be swallowed by the crashing surf. He offered the bottle to Robert.

“Age before beauty,” said Robert.

“If I’ve seen even one winter more than you,” Ged returned, “I’ll eat your handsome Northman’s beard.”

Robert’s laugh echoed off the salt-eaten stone. Gods, it felt good to laugh at the end of a day like this.

He took the bottle and knocked back a pull of ale. The bitterness of vinegar and wet grain filled his nose. Swallowing was an act of resolve.

“You look like you’ve just licked an old boot,” said Ged, taking the bottle.

“It is rather confronting,” Robert admitted. He thought, not without longing, of the fifty-year whiskey in his desk at home.

No, not home. Robert didn’t have a home anymore. Lightcliffe Hall was as forbidden to him now as Lyonesse itself.

He felt a nudge on his thigh. Ged, passing the bottle back. This time, Robert took it gratefully.

“You’d like our ale,” said Ged, leaning back against the wall. “It’s sour.”

“Well, that sounds horrible.”

“Not sour like you’re thinking,” said Ged, grinning. “More like young apples when they’re tart.”

Robert took another drink, concentrating on the memory of green apples. The ale went down a little easier this time.

“Perhaps I should visit Kel,” he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

“That’d make for a nice change,” said Ged. “For once I’d be the one defending you from my kinsmen instead of the other way around.”

Robert tried to imagine facing down a room full of hostile barbarians. It wasn’t a pleasant thought.

They drank in companionable silence for awhile, watching the ghostlike ballet of the whales. Robert could feel the breath of winter in the air. Still, he was warmed through with ale and the furnace heat coming off of Ged’s body.

“Can I ask you something?” Robert asked.

“’Course. Anything.”

“At Ademar’s Centennial, there was a man you were trying to protect.”

Ged turned away, but not before Robert saw the wave of grief ripple over his face.

“My father,” he said roughly. “He was a great warrior. A legend. If he’d had a proper sword—if they hadn’t drugged him—”

Robert touched Ged’s shoulder. He flinched reflexively, like a current had passed through his body. Then, with no small effort, he let himself relax into the touch.

“When I was young, his hands always seemed like those of a giant,” said Ged softly. “I thought he could bend iron and take mountains apart. But when I held him there in the sand, I realized that his hands were the smaller. I could wrap them up inside of mine, like he used to when I was a child.” He tried to shrug. “I suppose that’s a strange thing to remember.”

“It’s not strange at all,” said Robert, squeezing his shoulder. “I’m sure it was a great comfort to him, having you there at the end. Knowing that you’d survived.”

Moonlight turned the wet streaks under Ged’s eyes briefly silver before he wiped them away.

“I hope so,” he said. “Ah, Lady, I hope so.” With visible effort, Ged pulled himself together. He asked, “Was it like that with your father?”

“Gods, no,” said Robert. “My father was no one’s hero. I only have one real memory of him. He came to visit my mother—to fuck her, honestly, though he was fucking her less and less as the opium took her looks. Anyway, he brought me a toy. An elephant on wheels.”

“Eh-pha-lant?” said Ged, turning the unfamiliar word over in his mouth.

“Elephant. They’re something like whales,” said Robert, nodding at the humped forms that rose and fell in the sea below, “only they have four legs and a nose like a snake. They roam wild over the savannas of Enkaare.”

“En- _kar_ -ah,” said Ged, half to himself. He shook his head. “To think, I once thought Skuld was the furthest edge of the world. Now you tell me there are whales that walk on land in places I’ve never heard of. Are you sure you aren’t pulling my leg, wolf?”

Robert grinned. “Elephants are real, I promise you. Though there was a time when I might not have believed that myself.”

“So you weren’t always so worldly?” said Ged, elbowing him.

Robert snorted. “Hardly. City boys as are provincial as country boys, for all we pretend otherwise. I used to sit on the roof of my mother’s whorehouse and watch the ships sail in and out of the harbor. Once I spent a whole afternoon just watching one ship fade into the horizon. Until I met Luca, I couldn’t imagine any further than the point where that ship vanished.”

Hearing Luca’s name, Ged’s expression became distant. He asked, “Did you hate him at first?”

Robert whipped his head around to stare at Ged, horrified.

“No, of course not. Why would I?”

Ged looked away. For a moment, Robert thought he wasn’t going to answer.

“When we were taken off the ship in your port, there were people waiting to jeer at us,” Ged said quietly. “They threw stones and shit and rotten food. They weren’t soldiers, either. Just ordinary people. I saw faces like the faces I’d left at home, only twisted with hatred. I didn’t understand how ordinary people could hate us like that.”

Robert felt as though he’d had the breath knocked from him. He’d passed the wharf on the day the beasts and barbarians bound for Ademar’s Centennial had been unloaded. He’d seen the hunched figures weighted down in chains, the crowds gathered to abuse them. And he’d passed right on by, the sight so normal that it scarcely registered.

What would Robbie have done if he’d been playing on the docks the day Ged arrived? Would he have tried to knock the stones from peoples’ hands? Or would he have joined in?

“I’m sorry,” said Robert, the words pathetically inadequate even to his own ears. “In Solas, we’re taught to believe that your people are monsters.”

“Funny,” said Ged; “in Kel, we’re taught to think the same about your lot.”

Robert thought of Crawley forcing himself into a child. Ademar riddling a bound man with arrows. Bors raising the hammer.

“Maybe your people are right,” he said. “Maybe we are monsters.”

Ged made a thoughtful noise. “You know,” he said, “my great-grandmam was Solasan.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. From Guye. My great-granda took her in a raid.”

“What happened to her?”

“She bore the child he’d raped on her and then drowned trying to swim home.”

“Fields of hell.”

“Yeah.” Ged cleared his throat. “So. I guess there’s monsters on both sides.”

Something in his voice made Robert turn to look at him. He was hunched over, arms wrapped around his stomach. The same posture he’d taken in the caravan when speaking about what he’d done to Luca.

“Ged,” said Robert, touching his shoulder. “Listen to me. You know that you aren’t a beast, or an animal, or whatever else those bastards call you.”

Ged bit out a laugh that was half a sob. “You don’t know the things I’ve done.”

“No worse than I have.”

“No. Worse,” said Ged through chattering teeth. “You’ve never raped anyone.”

“Ademar forced you. He forced _both_ of you.”

But it was like Ged hadn’t heard. He was rocking back and forth, wringing his fingers together as though he meant to rip them off.

“ _I_ was the one who hurt him,” he said, voice raw with agony. “I did it over and over again. He pretended that he wasn’t in pain, that it was all just a show for the _vúlfmáistir_ , but I knew what I was doing to him. How much he was suffering.” He took a shuddering breath. “Lady, his eyes. I’ll never forget the look in his eyes, not if I live a thousand years.”

Robert knew that look. He’d seen it when Luca was under Crawley, and again when the gladiator—when _Ged_ —was ripping into him on the bloodstained floor. Robert had wanted to kill Ged then. Now he saw how much Ged had been suffering, too.

“Your people call him Luca,” said Ged, breaking the silence.

“Yes,” said Robert. “Oh, gods—don’t tell me it means something awful in Keld.”

Ged shook his head. “It doesn’t mean anything in Keld.” Then, seeing Robert’s confusion, he said, “It’s not one of our names.”

“What do you mean?”

“Whatever name his mother gave him, it wasn’t Luca,” said Ged. “One of his owners must’ve changed it.”

Emptiness opened in Robert’s chest. Like a trap door swinging open over a pit so deep he couldn’t even imagine the bottom.

“He never told me,” he said.

This time it was Ged who squeezed Robert’s shoulder.

“He’s from Ost, your Luca?” Ged asked.

Robert nodded. “Yes. By the sea.”

“I’ve heard of their clan,” said Ged. “They’re fishermen. Simple folk. They keep the old ways. Your wolves landed on their shore during the last invasion. Ost has seen a lot of war.”

Robert had known that, in the same way he could recite any other fact from a textbook. But until now, he hadn’t really connected facts of war to the shadows of memory that flickered over Luca’s face. He hadn’t wanted to.

“He’s never talked about it,” said Robert.

Ged didn’t look surprised. He sighed—and he might have seen only as many winters as Robert, but Ged sighed like an old, old man.

“Sometimes it’s easier to forget,” he said quietly.

“Luca doesn’t forget.”

“Sounds like a curse.”

“Yes,” said Robert; “sometimes I think it might be.”

Ged passed him the bottle. They’d almost finished the ale; Robert had to tip the bottle vertical. Through the glass, the stars swam and ran together.

Robert gave the ale back to Ged, who drank the last of it before tossing the bottle over the side of the balcony. As it fell it caught the light once, brilliantly, like a burst of flame, before being extinguished by the waves.

“Alfred thinks that when you have a chance, you’ll run,” said Robert.

Ged looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “If I do, will you chase me?”

“No,” said Robert. “When you’re ready, I’ll let you go.”

The whales had made a slow voyage of the skyline as they spoke. Now they were passing into the dark vapor where sea met sky. One by one, they winked out of existence. Robert imagined their silent, graceful pilgrimage continuing out of sight. Their great bodies rolling through strange waters, bound for distant, alien shores.

If Ged wanted to follow, Robert wouldn’t stop him. But would he let Luca go? Could he? Robert had no answer for that. And it terrified him.


	13. Chapter 13

_In the dream, Luca was swimming. His body surged through the water, thrumming with heartsong, swift and true as a spear of light. He was vast and powerful and fiercely alive. He owned himself, every inch, and he was not afraid._

*

Luca awoke with the conviction that something was terribly wrong. All of his senses ignited at once, primed for danger.

But there was no menace in Doran’s rumbling snore or the murmurs Connell made in his sleep. From the grayish light coming through the rent in the canvas, it was a little past dawn. When Luca listened, he heard only the ordinary noises of the morning. The breeze that blew through the tent flap was seasoned with smoke, which told him that Cook and the other slaves had already lit their breakfast fires. He heard laughter and drowsy banter. Someone was humming a cheerful, tuneless song.

It occurred to Luca then that for the first time in his life, he was not in pain.

The sensation was so novel that for a moment he almost couldn’t comprehend it. He flexed his limbs experimentally, expecting to feel a pang or a twinge.

Nothing.

It was suddenly difficult for Luca to breathe. The lack of pain felt _wrong_ , as though he was breaking a rule. Of course it had never been a rule that he had to hurt, but he was hurt so much, so often, that it seemed intrinsically tied to his purpose. Even when he wasn’t injured or healing from punishment, the parts of him that were used for sex were always at least a little sore. Luca had never inspired gentleness in the men who used him. (Some boys did, he knew, but whatever tricks they used to make men kind to them, he had been too stupid to learn.) He was always bruised and scraped and aching. And sometimes he was so tired, so fucked-out and broken open, that even the lightest touch was agony.

Then there were the times in the seray when Luca’s heart lurched against the wall of his chest like a trapped creature trying to claw its way to freedom. There would be more pain if he fainted—not from the fainting itself, but the punishment after. Aquila had no patience for dramatics.

But now there was _nothing._ Luca wasn’t bruised or scraped or aching. His heart beat in even, measured increments, like the ticking of a watch.

Lady, he wasn’t even _hungry._

For some reason, that thought struck him as hilarious. Laughter bubbled in his chest; he couldn’t cover his mouth in time. Beside him, Doran snorted and twitched awake.

“Whaz funny?” Doran slurred.

“Nothing,” said Luca, smiling up at the rent where the light came through. “Nothing at all.”

Against all odds, Luca’s strange new life settled into a routine.

The early hours were spent with Connell, exploring the fells and valleys as dawn spread over the camp. As they marched further inland, the land sloped into moors, woolly with moss and purple heather. Luca learned how to tell wild garlic from deathcamas and currants from nightshade, how to treat fever with elderflower and pack wounds with honey and spidersilk. Though Connell insisted that he had only a fraction of his mother’s expertise, Luca was certain that he knew everything worth knowing about plants and healing. This wasn’t _wrachvreft_ ; it was another kind of magic. Good magic. Like books, or Robert’s kisses.

Luca learned quickly that Doran was always short-tempered after dragging himself out of his bedroll, and his mood was never helped by seeing Connell and Luca return together from collecting. Perhaps Luca should’ve expected that. Connell and Doran were lovers, after all. Then again, Doran’s jealousy didn’t seem like that of a lover. Even if Connell was fucking Luca (which he wasn’t, he wouldn’t, Connell was _safe_ ), Luca didn’t think Doran would mind. Whatever the two of them did in their bedrolls on nights when they thought Luca was asleep, it was somehow of a piece with their friendship. Doran spoke longingly of Annie, but he and Connell bantered and bickered like brothers. (Like Asher—and _Lady_ , even the thought of him cut like a knife.)

Small wonder that Doran was jealous, then. Connell was all he had left of home.

Fortunately Doran’s bad moods were always fleeting. By the time he finished breakfast he was back to his usual self, teasing Toby and arguing with Connell about who would have the honor of carrying His Nibs’s swordroll that day.

Whenever Connell and Doran weren’t looking, Toby would snatch whatever food Luca hadn’t been fast enough to finish. But that was all right. Luca had more than enough to eat now, especially with all the bread crusts and biscuits he’d squirreled away. Besides, it made Connell happy to think that Luca was finally finishing his meals.

And Luca would’ve given a lot more than food if it meant Toby would go on talking to him about Legion. They’d graduated to more advanced manuevers: Fermi’s Gambit, the Cleric’s Sacrifice, the Feint of the Left-Handed Duchess. Because Toby’s Legion set was packed away in one of his many trunks, he instructed Luca to envision the board and pieces. It wasn’t difficult. Certainly easier than decrypting military cipher from memory while the King fucked him over the cooling body of a gladiator. And Legion was even better than decryption. It opened a whole world inside of Luca’s head. Like Connell teaching him about plants, or Doran talking about Chesten. Even if Luca was sent back to Highcourt now, he had a thousand new places to hide. And when— _when_ —he saw Robert again, Luca would have so much to tell him.

Once night fell, the order traveled back from the front to pitch camp. The company halted in stages: first the trundling supply carts, then the travel-weary footsoldiers, and finally the officers on horseback. Luca liked to think that to the birds wheeling overheard, the company looked like a many-limbed creature winding its way through the countryside.

After they pitched their tents, Doran trudged off to attend Master Balkas. Toby requisitioned their only torch in order to read by while Connell and Luca collected kindling for the fire. Dinner was hearty fare: barley, saltfish, dried peas, and whatever greens they’d foraged that morning. A feast to Luca’s eyes, but Toby always spent the meal complaining and afterward insisted that his stomach was as empty as if he’d eaten nothing at all.

“Do you think that lords are built differently than slaves?” Luca asked Connell one night after Toby had gone to his tent. “On the inside, I mean.”

“Master Toby’s stomach isn’t any different from yours or mine,” said Connell, “apart from the trap door at the bottom of it.”

Luca laughed. He was stretching, bent over on one side, so the laugh came out with a wheeze. Even though Master Balkas had no more use for Luca’s dancing than he had for any other part of him, Luca still made sure to stretch every night. A dancer who fell out of condition was worthless. Even when Luca’s ribs had been broken, his shoulder dislocated, his head so badly concussed that he couldn’t move without shattering pain, he still forced himself through his exercises.

He didn’t have to force himself now. For all Toby complained about being dog-tired and half-starved, Luca had never felt so strong. His skin drank in the sun like the leaves of the plants he gathered from the hillsides. His hair, when he unbraided it, was shot through with streaks of white-gold, and the breeze filled it like a sail.

If only Robert could see Luca now. _I need you to look after yourself_ , he’d said. That was a rule. And Luca was finally able to obey.

Luca bent over to the other side, bringing his leg up with him. The intent of this movement was to create a perfect vertical line from the foot on the ground to the one in the air. Luca breathed through the slight burn as his muscles adjusted.

Connell looked up from the drawing he was working on. Seeing Luca with his legs in a split, his eyebrows flew up.

“I didn’t know that people could bend that way," he said, alarmed.

“Oh, it looks harder than it is,” Luca assured him, deepening the stretch.

“For you, maybe. I’m starting to think your bones are made of taffy.”

On a whim, Luca bent over backwards, planting his palms on the ground so that his torso was curved like a _C_. He shot Connell an upside-down grin from between his knees.

“Oh, gods, my spine hurts just watching you,” Connell groans. “Mind you don’t break in half. The master has orders to send you back to Highcourt in one piece, not two.”

Luca laughed. He did a slow flip and landed standing over Connell.

Connell was sketching; he tipped the page so Luca could watch. His pencil was worn down to a nub, and he sharpened it as little as possible to keep it from disappearing altogether. Still, even with a half-inch of wood and lead, Connell was able to produce work of astonishing detail. In a few deft strokes, a lizard took shape, so lifelike Luca half-expected it to skitter off the page.

“It look so real,” he breathed.

Connell added another few strokes.The lizard now bore an unmistakable resemblance to Hodge. Luca gasped, equal parts guilty and delighted.

“How did you learn to do that?” he asked (because he was allowed to ask questions, as many as he liked; Connell never got angry).

Connell’s ears went pink. “You really want the whole story?”

“Please,” said Luca, sitting cross-legged beside Connell. He always wanted the whole story.

“Years ago, an artist came from Ermin to paint the Duke’s portrait. Alcide, his name was. I was nine or ten—you know, that age when boys can’t shut up to save their own hides—and an awful nuisance, always getting in the poor man’s way and pestering him with questions. The Duke would’ve had me whipped, but Alcide said that I could watch him work as long as I was quiet. He said that all artists have a third eye, here—” Connell tapped his forehead— “which lets them see things ordinary people can’t, and that it only opens when they’re still.” He smiled ruefully. “I’m sure he was just trying to spare me a beating, but he might as well have been the gods’ own herald delivering wisdom from on high. I spent hours in his studio, not moving a muscle, just watching him.

“And you know, my eyes did open,” he added. “Not the third one, of course—I’m no artist—but little by little, I started to see the world the way Alcide did.”

“What does it look like?” asked Luca.

Connell’s hand sketched shapes in the air. “Light and shadow. Angles. Shards of color. Empty space. But full, somehow—full of what’s really there, not what you think you ought to see.” He let his hand fall. “I probably sound mad.”

“You don’t sound mad at all,” said Luca. Then, summoning his courage, he rushed on, “And you _are_ an artist. If Alcide could see your drawings, he’d say so, too.”

Connell flushed. “They’re just scribbles,” he muttered, but Luca could tell how pleased he was.

(And how good it felt to be able to please a man without having to touch him! Luca wasn’t stupid enough to think it would last, of course. Being fucked was his purpose; he wasn’t worth keeping alive otherwise. But even when he was put to proper use again, Luca would still have the memory of making Connell happy.)

That night, like every other, Luca made a show of going to bed before Doran came back. He and Connell would only jerk each other off if they thought that Luca was asleep. Luca didn’t mind pretending. He tried not to hear the noises they made, Connell’s gasps and Doran’s bitten-off oaths. Even with his limited understanding of their exchanges, Luca knew that they were supposed to be private. (Imagine sex being _private!_ Such a strange idea; Luca couldn’t wrap his head around it.) Still, he cherished the knowledge that slaves could give each other pleasure. He hadn’t known that was possible before. Even though Luca would never experience it himself, he was glad that Connell and Doran were able to share their bodies with each other. They deserved to feel good.

Through the rent in the canvas, Luca could see the stars. He wished that he could sleep outside, but he knew knew it wasn’t safe. Not with so many soldiers around. But it was enough to know that there are no walls to shut him in, no doors to lock behind him. It was as if a window had opened, as big as the world, and Luca was at last allowed to look through.

The tip of the needle pierced the loops of frayed yarn. Lip between his teeth, Luca drew the thread through the hole, bridging the gap at the heel of the sock.

“Very good,” said Connell, watching over his shoulder. “But you needn’t to be _quite_ so neat, you know.”

“At that rate, it’ll take a year to finish one sock,” said Doran, dumping bacon onto Toby’s plate. “Two years for a pair. Come on, Mouse, stitch with courage.”

But before Luca could make the next stitch, he heard the clatter of hooves. Hodge, riding at a trot instead of his usual gallop. A soldier jogged after him, dragging a wheelbarrow loaded down with wooden crates. Bottles clinked and sloshed within.

Seeing Hodge’s dour expression, Doran contrived to become even more cheerful than usual.

“Good morning, sirs!” he bellowed, flinging up an arm in welcome. “How can we serve you on this fine, fair morning?”

Hodge glared at him. He opened his mouth to retort. Then, seeing Toby lean in to examine the crates, he kicked the horse forward, trying to angle its great bay body in front of the wheelbarrow.

“What’s in there?” asked Toby, easily sidestepping the horse.

“Confiscated liquor.” Hodge turned his glare on the soldier, who was trying to look innocent. “Ensign Fergus’s friend Ensign Graeme thought it would be a clever idea to sell spirits from Lyonesse on the black market at Redditch. Or at least Graeme _claims_ it was his idea,” he added, narrowing his eyes at Fergus.

“I dunno what got into the poor bastard,” said Fergus, shaking his head. “Must’ve been all the whores he had in Lyonesse. Turned his head.”

Hodge’s nostrils flared. “Well, _whoever_ decided to smuggle the liquor, Hector had it confiscated. He’s sentenced Graeme to ten stripes, to be administered by the Quartermaster on the flogging post at Redditch.”

At the mention of Graeme’s sentence, Connell and Doran winced in sympathy. They were no strangers to the whip; Luca saw the scars on their backs every night when they changed out of their tunics. But of course a free man would never have to endure a flogging that severe. Graeme would be whipped as Luca was: hard enough to mark the skin, but not scar it. And ten stripes was nothing. In the training house, Luca had taken twice that for letting a drop of cum spill on the floor.

But maybe whipping hurt worse for free people. Luca would have to ask Connell later.

“Will we have the pleasure of dragging that wheelbarrow to Redditch, then, sir?” asked Doran.

“That would be woefully inefficient,” said Hodge. “No, Hector has ordered that the contraband be stored in the household’s cart.”

Upon being told that the crates contained nothing more interesting than liquor, Toby had returned to his breakfast. Now he looked up, aghast.

“But where am I supposed to sit? And Luca,” he added, an afterthought.

“Hector is of the belief that you’ve sat enough,” said Hodge, his tone making it clear that he agreed. “From now on, you’ll ride at the front, as a squire should. As for the King’s boy,” he said, slitting his eyes at Luca, “Hector thinks that the men have got used to him by now.” He turned to Fergus. “You’ve satisfied your curiosity, I hope?”

“That’s right, sir,” said Fergus, shooting Luca a wink. “We’ve all gotten a good look at the lad, and now he’s no more interesting to us than old Doran here.”

Doran made a rude gesture behind Hodge’s back. Fear stole Luca’s breath, but Fergus just grinned and returned the gesture.

Hodge saw none of this. His eyes were still fixed on Luca. Frustrated longing seethed beneath the mask of disdain.

Luca’s fingers wrapped around his braid, yanking it hard enough to make his eyes sting. _Don’t_ , he admonished himself. Stupid, anyway, to be so frightened. Hodge didn’t dare touch him now, not with so many people around. And Luca had been too careful for Hodge to catch him alone again, no matter how many nights the man spent lurking around their part of the camp.

Still, Luca knew that he wouldn’t be able to keep out of reach forever. Hodge would find him. And when he did—

_You’ll get what you deserve, won’t you, hole?_

“Glad to hear it,” said Hodge absently. “Now, Lord Toby, the hostler has a horse waiting for you. If you’re _quite_ finished,” he added, as Toby shovelled the last of his bacon in his mouth before lumbering to his feet.

“Riding is a highly strenuous activity,” Toby managed to say around his mouthful. He swallowed. “And I’ll need Connell to help with the saddling-up. There are too many straps,” he said when Hodge made a noise of digust. “My fingers get confused.”

Fergus waited until they were out of earshot before turning to Doran. “Question: when Lord Toby’s with a woman, does he have Connell warm her up first? I’m only asking,” he went on, dodging the crust of bread thrown by Doran, “because if a saddle confuses the poor boy…”

“You couldn’t find your way around a cunt with a map,” Doran retorted. Seeing Luca’s expression, he turned sheepish. “But that’s enough of that talk, sir. We’ve scandalized Luca.”

Fergus laughed. “I didn’t know whores scandalized that easy.”

“Don’t call him that,” said Doran sharply.

Luca turned to stare at him. What was Doran thinking? Of course Luca was a whore. Fergus had every right to call him one. _Every right to call you worse, hole._

But Fergus shrugged and said, “Luca, is it?”

Luca nodded, dropping his gaze as Fergus raked eyes over him.

“Gorgeous,” said Fergus, though Luca didn’t know whether he was talking about the name or something else. “Balkas is mad if he thinks a man could get tired of looking at you.”

“Well, I’d be pretty fucking tired of being looked at if I was him,” Doran grunted, heaving one of the crates out of the wheelbarrow. “Here, Mouse, help me with this bloody thing.”

Luca caught the other end of the crate and helped Doran walk it to the cart. Fergus pushed the wheelbarrow over to make it easier to unload. Together they lifted the crates out and passed them from hand to hand. When Fergus dragged the last crate to the wheelbarrow’s edge, Luca pushed a shoulder under its splintery bottom. He transferred his weight, pivoting on his heel, and levered the crate smoothly into the back of the cart.

Fergus whistled. “All muscle under that soft skin, eh?”

“He’s stronger than he looks,” said Doran, mopping his forehead. “Aren’t you, Mouse?”

Fergus quirked a brow. “Mouse?”

“He’s quiet,” said Doran. “And he scurries.”

Fergus gave Luca a smile that made him squirm inside.

“Scurry off, then, little Mouse. Doran and I have business to discuss.”

Luca couldn’t disobey an order. But something—Mr. Kemp’s training, maybe—made him linger, hidden from sight around the corner of the cart. The mules were dozing in their traces; he stroked a velvety flank as he listened.

“So your lot threw Graeme under the cart, did you, sir?” said Doran.

“Graeme threw _himself_ under the cart, thank you very much,” said Fergus. “Volunteered to do it—and quite happily, after we offered to double his take.”

“Ah, he’s an enterprising fellow. Won’t be much of a take, though, with all your merchandise under my master’s watchful eye.”

“Our lot was hoping you might be willing to help with that.”

“Me, sir?” said Doran, all outraged virtue. “Why, you know how loyal I am to my good master, may the gods keep and preserve him.”

“Oh, pull the other one, it’s got bells on. Our lot runs all the action at Redditch, remember. And I know you’ve been saving your winnings. Planning to buy your manumission, aren’t you?”

Through the gap between the slats of the cart, Luca saw Doran’s jaw clench.

“That’s none of your damned business.”

“Maybe not,” said Fergus. “But if your master finds out what you’ve been up to, he’ll have that money off you in a second. And then he’ll string you up and give you a whipping that’ll turn your mam in her grave.”

Luca dug his fingernails into his palms hard enough to break the skin. Lady, what was Doran thinking? It was deadly dangerous, keeping money from the man who owned you. Oh, there were stories of slaves scraping together enough coin to buy themselves, but most of those tales ended with the master laughing in the slave’s face face before beating them senseless and selling them to the mines. Luca had never heard of a master freeing a slave for any reason but a fit of deathbed generosity, and those were usually reserved for slaves who were half-dead themselves.

But Doran was young and strong and healthy. There was a lifetime of service left in him. He had a better chance of sprouting wings than he did of being freed.

“If you want my help with your liquor, I want a cut,” Doran was saying.

Fergus laughed. “’Course you do,” he said.

 _Too easy_ , Luca thought.

Doran thought so, too. “The same cut as you’d give a free man,” he persisted. “I won’t take a penny less.”

Fergus laughed again, but this time there was an edge to it.

“You’re not a free man, though, are you, Doran? You’re a scheming slave with eyes bigger than his stomach.”

It would’ve been kinder for Fergus to slap him. Luca felt Doran’s betrayal radiating like a shockwave.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get your money,” said Fergus, magnanimous now. As though doing his friend a favor. 

Doran muttered something Luca couldn’t hear. Through the slats, Luca saw Fergus clap Doran on the arm. Doran flinched.

“That’s the spirit,” said Fergus. “We’ll go drinking together when you’re free, eh? I’ll rent us the prettiest girl in town and you can show me how you find your way around a cunt.”

Luca didn’t want to hear any more. Heart pounding, he fled back to their tent—where he found Connell, packing it away with brisk, shoving motions that loudly communicated his mood.

“I’m sure you won’t be surprised to hear that Master Toby has already fallen off his horse twice,” said Connell, yanking the straps on his bedroll. “I don’t know how Master Balkas expects him to keep his seat on an all-day ride over rough country. He can barely make it twice round the paddock at home. Gods, he’ll be a proper treat to deal with tonight. And where have you been?” he demanded, as Doran strode over.

“Pissing in the master’s new liquor bottles,” said Doran. Luca would have missed the hollowness in his voice if he hadn’t been listening for it.

Trumpets sounded from the front, the bright note piercing the haze of morning fog. The company lurched into motion like a pack animal twitching to life under the goad. Doran got the mules moving by smacking rumps and cursing at them. When they shambled forward, he grabbed his pack and slung it over his shoulder. Luca and Connell did the same.

As they marched, the sun crept slowly out from behind a mountain of cloud. It burnt off the fog and lit like flame on the gorse and heather. The whole hillside went up in a blaze of gold and purple. Under the company’s clamor, Luca could hear softer, wilder sounds. Winged things buzzed and chittered in the bracken, and the sky overhead rang with the high gossiping calls of the gulls.

Happiness ached in Luca’s chest. How strange to have lived so long in Solas and seen so little of it! How wonderful to be seeing it now. He wished that he could run through the high grass while the land sang its harsh lovely song all around him. He longed to be a part of that song. A note in a bird’s call; the rustle of feathers in an outstretched wing. If he could, Luca would shed his body and dissolve into air.

“Not missing the cart, are you, Mouse?” said Doran, misreading the distant look in Luca’s eye. When Luca shook his head fervently, Doran laughed. “No, I suppose marching’s a welcome break from listening to Toby natter his head off about Legion.”

“But it’s so interesting!” Luca blurted out. “All those maneuvers—and Lord Toby says there are more ways to win than anyone has discovered yet, even though they’ve been playing Legion for a thousand years. He explains everything so precisely that I can see the pieces move in my head.”

“Oh, Toby’s precise, all right,” said Doran. “He’s almost as bad as Con with his bloody plants.” He elbowed Luca. “Speaking of which, I bet you wish Con would stop dragging you to the back of the beyond every morning, eh?”

Connell was a few paces behind them, huffing under the weight of Toby’s swordroll. Hearing his name, he jogged to catch up.

“Luca doesn’t have to come if he doesn’t want to,” he said, red-faced.

“Oh, but I do want to,” said Luca. “You’ve been so patient with me. I’m learning so much.”

Connell turned to Doran with a smug look.

“See? I’m passing on valuable knowledge, I am. Not like you, always blathering on about bloody Chesten.”

“Blather? _Me?_ ” Doran swatted at Connell in mock outrage. “I’ve never blathered a day in my life. Anyway, Luca likes hearing about Chesten. Don’t you, Mouse?”

Luca nodded. “You describe it so well, it’s almost like going there myself.”

Connell made a thoughtful noise in his throat. “You don’t talk about yourself much, do you, Luca?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“’Course there is,” said Doran. “You served the King, didn’t you? What’s it like at Highcourt?”

Luca stumbled. The ground rushed up to meet him—not the grass of the moor, but cold marble stained red with blood. If Connell hadn’t caught his arm, he would have fallen to his knees.

“Luca? Are you all right?”

Luca shook his head. “I—I’m f-fine. But H-Highcourt—it isn’t w-what you think. It’s—”

— _where you belong, isn’t it, whore? The gods made you for me to take apart, piece by pretty piece. Perhaps when I’m finished I’ll string you back together and have you displayed in my menagerie. Won’t that be a fine joke?_

It wasn’t until Doran pounded Luca on the back that he realized he wasn’t breathing.

“Crivens, Mouse, don’t pass out on us,” said Doran. “You might be skinny, but I don’t fancy having to carry you to Redditch.”

Luca forced himself to gulp down air.

“I’m s-sorry, sorry, I just—please, I c-can’t—”

“You don’t have to talk about Highcourt,” said Connell. He was still holding Luca’s arm, the touch as grounding as an achor.

“I’m sorry,” said Luca, shame burning in his chest. “I d-don’t—I don’t have interesting stories like you do.”

Connell squeezed his arm before releasing it.

“You don’t have to have interesting stories to be an interesting person,” he said.

Luca gave Connell a grateful smile. He wasn’t interesting, or a person, but it was kind of Connell to pretend.

“Well, what d’you like to do?” asked Doran. “And don’t say some shit like _whatever my master tells me._ ”

Three weeks ago, that’s exactly what Luca would have said. The response was ingrained, instinctive; he had to swallow it, and then swallow again against the nausea that welled in his throat at not giving the correct reply.

“I—I like being outside,” he said.

“So you don’t miss lounging around the seray?” said Doran.

Luca shook his head, hard. “I like the sea, and the sky, and watching the birds, and learning new things. And I—” He took a deep breath and told himself to be brave. “I l-like when you talk to me. About plants, or Chesten, or—anything, really.”

The moment the words left his mouth, Luca wished he could take them back. _Stupid, desperate whore_. Now that Doran and Connell knew how much Luca wanted to be talked to, they would stop. It would be like the Harlequin all over again. The other boys snickering to each other, pretending Luca’s pleas were nothing but the wind. Calling him mad when he started to talk to himself. His voice had gotten smaller and smaller until it almost disappeared. And then there was nothing to drown out Master Trainer crooning in his head.

 _Your mouth is only good for taking cock, anyway, hole. Just like the rest of you_. _Why would anyone care what a brainless toy has to say?_

Luca was brought back to himself by the weight of Connell’s hand on his shoulder.

“It’s us who ought to be glad you put up with our prattle,” he said. “You’re easy to talk to.”

“I am?” Luca whispered.

“’Course you are,” said Doran. “You pay attention, and you ask good questions.”

Heat pricked Luca’s eyes. To hide his face, he feigned interest in the gulls wheeling overheard. _Idiot,_ he told himself, furiously blinking back tears. _They’re only being nice because they feel sorry for you_.

But then he decided, in a rush of defiance, that he didn’t care. _You’re easy to talk to. You pay attention and ask good questions._ No one could take those words. Not Master Trainer. Not even the King. Luca would lock them away in the unbreachable place inside of him, where all his treasures were hidden.

“You like to read, too, don’t you?” said Connell. Seeing Luca’s surprise, he added, “I’ve seen the way you look at Master Toby’s books.”

Luca bit his lip, furious with himself. Stupid to let that kind of hunger show on his face. He was lucky it was only Connell who saw.

“Yes,” he admitted. “I love to read.”

“Talk about reading, then,” said Doran. “What kind of books d’you like?”

“Oh, every kind. Stories especially.”

“Yeah? What about?”

 _Everything,_ Luca wanted to say. _Anything_. He’d always been so grateful to have books at all, he hadn’t thought to develop preferences. But now that he considered it, there were some that he enjoyed the most.

“My favorites are the ones that take me to other places. They’re about lands far away, or lost in time, and all the strange things that happen there. Like—” He cut himself off, worried he was boring them ( _Brainless toy_ , Master Trainer reminded him), but Connell nodded in encouragement. “L-like how there was a king once, in Ermin, who arranged a rabbit hunt for his court—only the rabbits outnumbered the courtiers, and they all charged straight at the king.”

Doran burst out laughing.

“Melita’s tits, that’s a picture! Did they eat him?”

“Just his hat,” said Luca, a grin tugging the corners of his mouth. “The king ordered his soldiers to finish the rabbits off, but by then most of them had escaped. The king was so humiliated that he forbade the eating of rabbits. And it’s still forbidden, even though there isn’t a king in Ermin anymore.”

“Oh, I like that,” said Doran. “There’s an old altar in the woods at Redditch. Maybe I’ll leave a carrot as an offering. Wouldn’t hurt to have the god of coneys on my side, eh?”

“That reminds me of something a trader told me once,” said Connell. “He said that in Baktria, they worship their horses.”

Luca nodded. “The steppe nomads do. They have black horses with split hooves like a camel’s. When they die their masters have them shod in gold and buried with silver saddles.”

“And to think,” said Connell, “in Chesten we just boil our nags down for stew.”

“Ah, but it’s a treat in the winter, your mam’s mare stew,” said Doran with a dreamy look in his eye. “Hot stew and brown bread and a mug of hot ale. A gale throwing snow against the windowpanes. Good company ’round the fire.” He sighed. “You ever get homesick for the Territories, Mouse?”

“Dor!” Connell hissed.

“What? I’m only asking!”

To Luca, Connell said, “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

Luca shrugged, watching a meadowlark dart in and out of the bracken.

“I’ve been here a long time,” he said.

It was stupid, anyway, thinking about Ost. He wasn’t like Doran and Connell. They might see their home again someday. Luca never would.

It was Doran who broke the silence.

“Who taught you how to read?” he asked.

Memory pierced Luca like a beam of light. Robbie, all skinned knees and elbows, hair a rooster’s comb. He’d had freckles then, and a dent in his nose, and the brush of his fingertips sent sparks shooting down Luca’s spine.

Luca realized that he was touching the corner of his mouth where Robbie had kissed him for the first time. He forced himself to drop his hand.

“A servant in my master’s household,” he said, trying to keep the longing from his voice.

“A free man, eh?” said Doran, waggling his eyebrows. “Was he sweet on you?” Connell threw an elbow into his side. “My _liver_ , Con!”

“He was kind to me,” said Luca. “He…”

 _He was the sun_ , he wanted to say. _I was in the dark before he found me. I didn’t know how cold I was until he warmed me back to life._

But of course Luca could never say that, not even to Connell and Doran. Anyway, there weren’t words to describe Robert. Not in any language Luca knew.

“Maybe you’ll see him again someday,” said Connell.

“I will,” said Luca. “I know I will.”

 _I’ll find you,_ Robert said. And he would.

In a squall of wingbeats, the birds in the bracken exploded into the air. They wheeled overhead, shrilling alarm. In Chesten, such a sight must be an augur; Doran and Connell made a sign against bad luck.

A shout of warning rose behind them. The birdcalls were drowned out by the clatter of hooves.

Luca turned just in time to dive aside as two riders drove through the company. They thundered past, so close that hot spittle from a horse’s frothing mouth hit his face. Luca registered that one of the riders was wearing a Watchman’s uniform. Then they were gone, galloping toward the front as though the rats of hell were after them.

“Crazy bastards!” Doran shouted, throwing a rock after the riders. “I hope Orkus fucks your mothers in their sleep!”

One of the mules had reared up, kicking at the sky; Connell caught it by its bridle.

“Shut _up_ , Doran!” he hissed, hauling the mule down to its fours. “For gods’ sakes, one of them’s wearing an officer’s uniform. Or d’you _want_ the skin flogged off your back?”

Doran deflated slightly. “Didn’t get a look at what the fuckers were wearing,” he muttered.

The other mule was tossing its head, unsettled by its partner’s agitation. Luca rubbed the whorl of forelock between its twitching ears.

“The second rider is a Watchman,” he said. “Lieutenant-ranked, I think.”

Doran cursed. “They’ll be headed for Master Balkas, then.” He scrubbed two hands through his hair, making it stand up in wings. Then he started after the riders. “You two stay here,” he said over his shoulder.

Connell looked like he was about to protest, but gave up.

“Uninvited guests the night before a full moon,” he muttered, shaking his head. “My mam would be chewing comfrey seeds and covering the mirrors.”

Luca took a lump of sugar from his pocket. Smelling it, the mule’s nostrils flared. Luca held the sugar in the flat of his hand, like Doran had taught him, and let the mule lick it up. Then, guilty over giving one mule sugar but not the other, he let its partner lap the residue of sweetness from his palm.

 _I wish I knew their names_ , Luca thought. Surely animals must have their own names, mustn’t they? Not the names their owners gave them, but what they called each other. What their mothers called them.

Luca shook himself. _Letting your imagination run away with you again, hole? You always were too sentimental for your own good._

Anyway, even if the mules did have real names once, they’d probably forgotten by now.

By the time Doran returned, the birds had resettled in their nests and the mules were mouthing sedately at the grass. Doran’s own mouth was set in a grim line. He’d run most of the way back; sweat pasted his tunic to his skin.

“Dunno who those fuckers are, but the master’s treating them like Generals at a War Council,” Doran said. “He sent me back to fetch you. _Both_ of you,” he amended when only Connell started forward.

Luca’s breath hitched. Master Balkas never sent for Luca. He couldn’t stand the sight of him. What had changed?

“Why Luca?” asked Connell, looking as unsettled as Luca felt.

“All hands on deck, apparently,” Doran replied. “And bring your kit, Con. One of them’s injured.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lateness of this chapter is thanks to a concussion, power outages, and the start of the semester. (More detailed sadsackery on Tumblr.) Updates are definitely going to slow down over the next few months, but, bright side: this degree will be over and done with in Spring, and I'll have ample time to devote to writing. Thank you all so much for your support. You keep me going. <3


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should note that there are two men named Fergus in this story: one in Robert's storyline, one in Luca's. They are brothers. This will become important, I promise.

Master Balkas’s tent had been pitched in a hurry. The roof listed sideways, causing the Solasan flag on its centerpole to droop like a used hankerchief. The entry was covered with a heavy flap of leather; Doran shouldered it open and Connell and Luca ducked under his arm.

Before today, Luca had never been allowed inside his master’s tent. Like Master Balkas’s quarters on the _Makepeace_ , it was shabbier than he would’ve expected. A table had been hastily constructed out of a slab of wood on slats, and the two riders sat on crates. Master Balkas and Tybalt leaned over a map, conferring with the riders in low, urgent voices.

Whatever journey had brought the riders here, it had clearly been a difficult one. The Watchman’s voice was slurred with exhaustion; he sat half-slumped over the table. The Major perched on his crate with the stiff posture that spoke of either good breeding or pain.

 _Both,_ Luca thought. The Major’s leg was splinted with two sticks and a belt. The limb was so swollen that the shaft of his boot had been slashed open in order to fit over his foot.

When the Watchman pushed himself up on one elbow to roll a bleary eye at them, cold shock ran down Luca’s spine. It was Lieutenant Arkwright. Luca hadn’t seen his bullish face and liver-colored hands since Robert took over his appointments at the Harlequin.

Luca had a wild hope that Arkwright wouldn’t recognize him—only to be dashed in the next moment when the man bolted upright.

“Davies, tell me I’m not going mad,” said Arkwright, stabbing a finger at Luca. “Is that, or is that not, the Golden Bird?”

The Major—Davies—turned to look. Under the ashen cast, his pinched featured were familiar. Luca had seen him before, attending higher-ranked officers at Highcourt. He looked Luca over with curiosity rather than interest.

“If it isn’t the Golden Bird, there’s some barbarian trick afoot,” said Davies. “It’s well-known that bloodthirsty goddess of theirs broke the mold after she made this one. But how on earth did the King’s favorite end up here?”

“If you’d been invited to my banquet of honor, you’d already know,” said Master Balkas. “His Majesty made a loan of the boy as a reward for my victory at Angarrick.”

“ _Our_ victory, Balkas, surely,” said Davies with a pinched smile.

“I don’t recall seeing you at the front, _Major_.”

“We all serve His Majesty in different capacities, _General_.”

“Speaking of which,” said Arkwright, “have you been enjoying the boy in the same capacity as the King, Balkas?”

Master Balkas went red.

“I—he—that’s none of your concern!”

Arkwright and Davies exchanged expressions of amusement.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Arkwright murmured.

“His Majesty always did have a sense of humor,” Davies returned, not quite under his breath.

Master Balkas struggled for a moment before deciding to pretend he hadn’t heard. He wheeled on Luca with such a look of fury that it took all of Luca’s self-control not to drop to his knees.

“Boy, make yourself useful for once. I assume they taught you to pour wine at Highcourt? Well, _pour it_ , then. And you, Doran—go find Hodge and see about getting us some bloody lunch. You should be able to anticipate your master’s needs!” he shouted after Doran’s retreating back.

“You might have reminded him to fetch that doctor you promised me,” said Davies. “I’ve been riding over rough country with a broken ankle for nearly a fortnight, Balkas. Orkus himself couldn’t have designed a better torment.”

“I promised you a medic, Davies, not a doctor,” said Master Balkas.

Connell had been hovering in the threshold with his satchel clutched in two hands. He stepped forward, bowing, only to brought up short by Davies’s expression of dismay.

“A _slave?_ You must be joking! Where are the real doctors?”

“Buried at Angarrick,” said Master Balkas. “If you want to see a free man with a medical degree, you’ll have to wait until we get to Redditch.”

Davies ground his teeth, pain warring with pride. Then he made a noise of disgust.

“Fine. But if I lose my foot, Balkas, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

As Connell knelt by Davies’s chair, Luca moved quickly to fill his cup with wine. He downed half of it in one gulp and motioned for Luca to refill.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I’ll need to cut your boot off,” said Connell.

Davies cursed.

“Do it. But if I feel even the whisper of that blade on my skin, I’ll have you hobbled like a glue horse.”

Connell’s throat bobbed. Luca wished he could squeeze his arm, returning the grounding touch that Connell had offered him earlier.

But Arkwright was tapping his empty cup. Luca stepped around the table, the narrow space between table and tent canvas forcing him to pass too close to the bulk of Arkwright’s body. It must’ve been weeks since the man bathed; the odors of horse and old blood clung to him like smoke. Luca tried to breathe through his mouth.

“Fill me right up to the rim, dove,” said Arkwright, pushing his cup to Luca. “It’s been a long ride, and I’m perished.”

As Luca poured, Arkwright’s hand slipped under his tunic and slid up the back of his leg. His palm was hot—like the rest of him; he used to soak Luca with sweat—but still, Luca’s skin broke out in goosepimples.

Davies was staring grimly into his cup, and the table blocked Master Balkas and Tybalt from view, but Connell turned at exactly the wrong moment and saw Arkwright’s hand disappear between Luca’s legs.

Connell’s eyes went wide. He looked up and locked gazes with Luca.

 _Don’t say anything,_ Luca begged him silently.

Tybalt had been writing rapid-fire—transcribing notes for a report, Luca thought. Now he cleared his throat.

“Lieutenant, you were describing your arrival at Absalom,” Tybalt prompted, pen hovering over the page.

Under the table, Arkwright caressed the crease of Luca’s ass.

“Davies can tell you,” he said. “After all, it was him who unmasked the traitor Robert Argent.”

The carafe slipped from Luca’s hands. Wine splashed all over the table and Arkwright’s lap. Arkwright leapt up, cursing. The soaked placket of his breeches clung to his softening cock.

Master Balkas slammed his fist against the table.

“Idiot boy! Is there no task simple enough for you?”

“I’m s-sorry, Master—”

“Don’t apologize to me. It’s Arkwright whose trousers you ruined.”

Arkwright was mopping himself with the tail of his jacket, muttering darkly. Connell tossed Luca a cloth from his satchel; Luca caught it with numb hands. He wiped the wine from Arkwright’s seat. As Arkwright sat, he grabbed Luca’s wrist and pulled him closer, forcing him to his knees.

“You’ve gotten clumsy, haven’t you?” he said in a low voice, directing the cloth to his wine-drenched crotch.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Luca whispered.

“I’ll let you make it up to me,” said Arkwright, rubbing Luca’s hand against the outline of his cock. “That’s it, slave. Clean up your mess.” Then, too quietly for anyone else to hear, “Remember how you used to do it with your tongue?”

Tybalt cleared his throat again, somehow inflecting the sound with a note of impatience.

“Major Davies, if you’d be kind enough to continue?”

Connell had peeled Davies’ boot and sock away to reveal his ankle—horribly swollen, radiating heat, green and black with bruising. As Connell massaged salve into his livid skin, Davies glared at Tybalt out of the corner of one bloodshot eye.

“How good of you to distract me,” Davies ground out. “Remind me where I left off?”

“You and Lieutenant had just arrived at Absalom with reinforcements,” said Tybalt. “Remember, a copy of this report will be sent to the Head Office at Breakwater, so do be as thorough as possible in your recounting.”

“Anything for the Head Office,” said Davies sourly. “Right. We arrived at Absalom and went at once to meet the Warden. You can imagine our surprise when he told us that an inspector had already arrived from Lyonesse—and that he was none other than Lord Robert Argent. Of course news of his lordship’s arrest hadn’t reached Absalom yet.”

“His former lordship,” Arkwright corrected.

“Yes, well, it seems his _former_ lordship had escaped from the prison caravan, gods know how. He’d brought company, too. Some great brute of a barbarian.”

“The King’s gladiator,” Arkwright put in. “One of Kemp’s spies, if you can believe it. We arrested him in the raid along with the rest of the rat’s nest at Highcourt. I said we should just hang him and have done with it, but Commander Mara thought he was worth keeping alive for the interrogator—”

“Yes, thank you, Arkwright,” said Davies. “Would you like to tell it, or shall I?”

“Just trying to help,” said Arkwright cheerfully, squeezing Luca’s hand around his cock.

“ _Anyway_ ,” said Davies, rolling his eyes, “I apprehended Argent easily enough. They say he’s a genius with the sword, but thankfully the interrogator had done us the favor of seeing to his hand.”

“He was branded?” Master Balkas broke in.

“Yes, thank Melita for small mercies. He’ll have a hard time passing himself off as a lord again with the traitor’s mark on his hand.”

Luca had been listening in a sort of fugue, unable to feel anything but drowning horror. But now he was struck by the memory of an iron pulled from the coals. The foulness of the bit between his teeth. The smell of himself burning.

No. _No._ That couldn’t have happened to Robert. They couldn’t brand him like a prisoner. A slave.

At that thought, pain pierced Luca, so sharp and sudden that he swallowed a gasp. His fingers tightened involuntarily around Arkwright’s erection.

“Good boy,” Arkwright murmured. “Knew you missed me.”

From the other end of the table came a strangled noise. Lady, was Connell still watching?

 _Don’t look_ , Luca begged silently. _Please, please don’t look_.

At least no one else knew what was going on under the table. Davies glared at the ceiling as Connell applied a cold compress to his ankle; Master Balkas was scowling his cup of wine. Tybalt’s quill flew over his parchment.

“And after Argent was apprehended?” he prompted.

“Argent’s friends arrived,” said Davies. “Gods, there must have been hundreds of them. They swarmed the courtyard like locusts and slaughtered their way into the keep. The guards were useless, they practically threw themselves on the enemies’ swords. Arkwright and I fought valiantly, of course, but it was clear that Absalom was a lost cause.”

“I see you missed the day at the Academy when we learned that good captains go down with their ships,” said Master Balkas.

“It wasn’t my ship,” Davies retorted. “Besides, if we hadn’t escaped, there would’ve been no one to inform the Generals that Absalom fell.”

They glowered at each other, the air between them crackling with bad feeling. It was Tybalt who broke the silence.

“And what of Robert Argent?” he asked. “What happened with him?”

“The last I saw of Argent, he was fighting back to back with Tam Tregeryth,” said Davies. “And they weren’t fighting to lose.”

Master Balkas cursed.

“Safe to assume he survived. And that damned Tregeryth is on the loose again.”

He wheeled around and kicked over a chair.

“Fields of hell! We’re back to where we were before Angarrick. Five hundred men lost for what? A few miles on the border? Kenever’s probably at Castle Guye having a good laugh in our direction.”

Davies responded with a sharp remark, and Master Balkas replied in kind, but Luca was no longer listening. Relief coursed through him like sensation returning to a tied-off limb.

Robert was alive. He was alive, he was free, and he was with allies. And the gladiator—was it too much to hope that he was Ged? But he _had_ to be Ged. Who else? That meant Robert and Ged were fighting together now. The two strongest men Luca knew. Nothing could stop them. Not even the King.

Luca should never have worried. Robert had promised to stay alive— _I’m no good to you dead, am I?_ Even if he was hurt—his _hand_ , his soft, gentle, steadying hand that had only ever touched Luca with kindness—even then, he kept his word.

Arkwright was rubbing against Luca faster now, the crotch of his breeches damp with more than wine. Lady, was he really going to come like this? Jerking himself off with another man’s slave while that slave’s master stomped around in an oblivious rage? Luca would never understand free people, not as long as he lived.

The tent flap opened to admit Hodge. Doran followed, his arms laden down with lunch. When Hodge let the tent flap close behind him, Doran had to scramble sideways so that it didn’t hit him in the face. He shot a murderous look at Hodge’s back.

Then he saw what Arkwright was doing with Luca under the table.

“What the hell d’you think you’re—”

Doran cut himself off, but it was too late. The tent went silent. Luca found himself suddenly under the scrutiny of six pairs of eyes. Their expressions ranged from horrified (Connell) to amused (Davies) to piqued at the disruption (Tybalt).

The big vein throbbed in Master Balkas’s forehead.

“If you’re quite finished, Lieutenant,” he said coldly.

“Not quite,” Arkwright muttered. But he released Luca’s hand and let him stand up.

Luca was sure that he was going to be hit, or at least thrown out of the tent. But Master Balkas simply gave him a look of such digust that Luca felt bleached through with shame.

Then Master Balkas rounded on Doran and boxed his ears twice on both sides.

“Speak out of turn like that again and I’ll whip you myself,” said Master Balkas.

Thankfully Doran had seen the blows coming and managed to keep his balance. He flexed his jaw, no doubt struggling to hear through the ringing in his ears.

“Yes, Master,” Doran said thickly.

Master Balkas turned to Luca. He braced himself for a double portion of what Doran had just gotten, but Master Balkas seemed as eager to pretend that nothing had happened as Luca was.

“The King let Argent have you the night before we left port,” said Master Balkas. “Argent was arrested the very next morning. How was he acting? Strangely?”

“S-strangely, Master?”

“Did he seem nervous? Agitated?”

“Oh, I’m sure he was _agitated_ , all right,” Arkwright drawled.

Before Master Balkas could retort, Luca said quickly, “My lord Argent was tired from the fight with Lord Carlyle, Master.”

“That’s all you remember?” said Master Balkas. “That he was tired?”

“Th-there was a bottle of wine, Master,” said Luca. “From the Erminian Ambassador. It was—forgive me, sir—I think it was very strong.”

“So Argent’s a drunk as well as a traitor,” said Master Balkas. “Gods, what a waste of his name.”

“If you knew the family better, Balkas, you wouldn’t be surprised,” said Davies. “The Grand Chancellor may be a paragon, but his son had quite the reputation.”

Arkwright gave Luca a wolflike grin.

“And what about all the other times Argent had you, dove? Was he drunk then, too?”

“ _Other_ times?” said Master Balkas, bewildered. “How often did the King loan the boy out?”

“I’m not talking about Highcourt,” said Arkwright. “The boy was owned by the Harlequin before he was snatched up for the seray. A brothel,” he clarified, seeing Master Balkas’s confusion. “Argent was one of his customers.”

“I didn’t know that brothel rosters were a hobby of yours, Arkwright,” said Davies.

“Whores are my hobby,” Arkwright retorted. “Girls, boys, I just like a tight cunt. His included, before Lord Argent poached my damned appointment. And let me tell you, it was harder to get an hour with the Golden Bird than with the Commander of the Watch.”

“Oh dear,” said Davies, all false sympathy, “has Commander Mara been giving you the brush-off? He always finds room in his schedule to meet with me.”

Arkwright sneered at him. Clearly there was no love lost between the two of them, for all they enjoyed ganging up on Master Balkas.

“Is that true, boy?” Master Balkas asked Luca. “Robert Argent was one of your clients?”

“Yes, Master,” said Luca, careful to keep his voice even, his face blank.

“Well? What did you make of him?”

“Make of him, Master?”

Master Balkas cast a beseeching gaze up at the ceiling.

“Dear gods, it’s like trying to hold a conversation with a parakeet.”

“Oh, have a little pity, Balkas,” said Davies. “The boy was made to be enjoyed, not interrogated. Here, slave—pull down your tunic and show your brand to your master. I’m sure it’ll be the first time he’s had occasion to examine it up close.”

Luca turned, slipping his tunic from his shoulders. There was nothing novel about being exhibited, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Doran and Connell exchange outraged looks. Were slaves not made to display themselves in Chesten? It must be an even stranger place than Luca had thought.

Still, for all he ought be used to this—for all he _was_ used to this—Luca had to suppress the perverse urge to cover himself.

 _Stupid,_ he thought. He’d spent most of his life stripped naked for the pleasure of men he was afraid of. Master Trainer was right: Luca had gotten spoiled. It was good that this was happening. It was a reminder. He ought to be grateful.

Arkwright leered openly while Hodge hid his interest behind a mask of indifference. Master Balkas’s indifference, on the other hand, was entirely unfeigned.

“Am I supposed to be impressed?” he said, folding his arms.

“That,” said Davies, pointing at the training house brand, “is Ganymene’s mark. Slaves of this caliber have had everything trained out of them but the will to please. _Everything,_ Balkas. If you tell this one to hold its breath, it’ll suffocate before it disobeys.”

Luca hoped that Master Balkas didn’t decide to test him. Master Crawley liked to show off his toy’s obedience by having Luca hold his breath until he passed out.

Fortunately Master Balkas had as little interest in testing Luca as he did in looking at him.

“Pull up your tunic,” he ordered. Then, when Arkwright made a disappointed noise, “Enjoyed the view, did you, Lieutenant?”

“Some of us have a pulse,” Arkwright muttered.

The vein in Master Balkas’s forehead was so swollen it looked like a pipe about to burst.

“Get out,” he ordered Luca. “ _All_ of you,” he added, sweeping his scowl over Doran and Connell.

The three of them nearly knocked each other over with the speed at which as they bowed themselves from the tent.

The moment they were out of earshot, Doran erupted.

“I could kill that bastard! Touching you like that. Making you—hell. No wonder he has to go to whores. Bet he’s never had a lay he didn’t steal or pay for. I hope his prick falls off. ”

As Doran ranted, Connell cast Luca a searching look.

“Are you all right?” he asked quietly.

“Of course,” said Luca, mystified by the strength of their reactions. “It was nothing. I’m fine.”

Doran tried to kick a rock, but missed. The blows to his ears had left him off-balance; he nearly stumbled, but righted himself just in time.

“I hope Lieutenant Handsy tries that shit with a free man someday and gets his fingers broken,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Are your ears all right?” Luca asked.

“Ah, the master’s got hands like a girl. Can’t feel it unless he really puts his shoulder in.” He elbowed Connell. “Like when you spilled lye on his good boots, remember?”

“Don’t remind me,” Connell groaned. “I couldn’t hear out of this side for a week.”

As they walked back to the cart, Connell and Luca caught Doran up on what Arkwright and Davies had told Master Balkas. Luca let Connell tell the parts about Robert. He didn’t trust himself not to let too much show.

“Assassination plots and prison breaks,” said Doran, shaking his head. “Bloody hell. I wish it was that exciting ’round here. But wait, double back—what’s that fight with Carlyle you mentioned, Luca?”

“Lord Rafe challenged Lord Argent to the sword,” said Luca, trying to keep the pride from his voice. “Lord Argent won.”

That brought Connell and Doran up short.

“Argent _won?_ ” said Connell, at the same time Doran demanded, “Tell us the whole story right now.”

During the duel, Luca had been sitting at the King’s feet with his heart in his throat and the toe of his master’s boot kicking idly at the base of the plug buried inside of him. All of his senses had been on high alert, searing every detail of the fight into his memory.

But telling the story now to Doran and Connell, he could make it the good kind of exciting. They wanted to see Robert prevail over Lord Rafe almost as much as Luca had. He found himself lavishing the bout with description, wanting to impress upon them how strong and clever Robert was, how deserving of victory.

Doran and Connell didn’t seem to mind. In fact, they kept encouraging him to add detail. When Luca got to the part about how Robert goaded Lord Rafe into making a wild thrust, then struck like lightning, they both broke into whoops of laughter.

By then they’d reached the cart. The mop of Toby’s hair was just visible in back; he was snoring with the tent canvas pulled over him like a blanket. Apparently he’d taken advantage of the unplanned stop to abandon his horse and stow away.

“Toby!” Doran shouted, slapping the side of the cart. “You’re going to want to hear this.”

Toby started upright.

“What s’it?” he slurred.

“Your least-favorite brother lost a duel.”

Toby came awake at once.

“ _No!_ ”

“ _Yes_ ,” said Doran. “And Luca saw the whole thing.”

Toby grasped Luca by the shoulders.

“Tell me everything,” he ordered. “Spare no detail.”

Luca obeyed gladly. The story came out even better this time. He put in little pauses for effect and described how Lord Rafe’s expression had shifted from smugness to fury, while R—while _Lord Argent_ radiated dashing confidence from start to finish.

“And after Rafe lost, how did he look?” asked Toby.

“Devastated?” Doran put in. “Like he’d been punched in the stomach, maybe?”

“He was pretty angry,” said Luca.

Doran and Toby burst out laughing.

“I bet he was fucked right off!” Doran crowed. “Did he throw his sword?”

“He did throw his sword.”

“ _Ha!_ ”

“This is my favorite story,” said Toby solemnly. “I want to hear it every day for the rest of my life. If I ever meet this Robert Argent, I shall ask to shake his hand.”

“Ah, well, I wouldn’t set your heart on it,” said Doran, wiping away a tear of laughter. “Sad to say no one’ll be shaking Argent’s hand anytime soon, what with him trying to kill the King and all.”

“Robert Argent tried to kill the King?” Toby breathed. “He’s like a character out of a book! How marvelous!”

“I wouldn’t let General Balkas catch you describing attempted regicide as marvelous, my lord,” said Tybalt, coming up behind them. “Weren’t you given a horse?”

Toby went shifty-eyed.

“I lost it,” he said.

“Oh, you lost it, did you?” said Doran, crossing his arms. “You’ve misplaced a great bloody horse, then, Toby? Have you got a bridge in your back pocket you’d like to sell us while you’re at it?”

As Doran spoke, Tybalt’s mouth tightened into a thin line of disapproval. Still, whatever he thought of Doran’s familiarity with Toby, he witheld comment.

Instead, he turned to Luca.

“It’s actually you I’ve come to find,” said Tybalt, his tone communicating exactly how little he thought of the errand. “Your master sent me to fetch you.”

Doran’s big hand closed over Luca’s shoulder.

“What for?” Doran demanded, scowling down at Tybalt with such foreboding that Tybalt took a step back.

“It’s hardly my place to ask,” said Tybalt, smoothing back his hair in a transparent attempt to regain composure.

“Are the officers still with the master, sir?” Connell asked.

For all Tybalt was clearly irked at being forced into such an extended exchange with slaves, he must’ve heard the fear behind Connell’s question. His expression softened slightly. 

“No. Lieutenant Arkwright is meeting the riders from the Light Cavalry who the General assigned to his command. They’ll set out for the King’s Road in the morning, and from there to Lyonesse, where they’ll petition the Council for a detachment to retake Absalom.”

“Master Balkas isn’t going to retake it himself?” asked Doran.

“The General is under royal orders to make all haste for Redditch,” said Tybalt. “He can hardly turn the entire company around now.”

“Why’s it so important that we get to Redditch, anyway?” Toby yawned.

“Redditch is the Crown’s stronghold in the Midlands,” Tybalt replied. “And as I hope you recall from your lessons, my lord, the Midlands are the bread basket of Lyonesse. Keneverite attacks on farms are putting the entire supply chain at risk. If this unrest persists, there will be food shortages all over Solas.”

“Not just food,” said Doran. “Remember all those factories we passed on our way out of Chesten, Toby? Great heaping ugly things? That’s where they make all that fancy embroidered fabric that gets sent to Lyonesse. From there it gets loaded on ships, and then the ships come back with gold and weapons. The King loses those factories, he loses the war.” Seeing Tybalt’s surprise, Doran said defensively, “What? I used to listen to the Duke talk. He’d rag on for hours when he was in his cups.”

“So Balkas has to choose between taking back the Midlands or taking back Absalom,” said Toby, “and he’s choosing the Midlands?”

“That’s the general shape of things, yes,” said Tybalt.

“But why does he have to choose at all?” Toby persisted.

“Because he’s not got enough men to split the company,” said Doran before Tybalt could reply. “Too many died at Angarrick, and the master’s not going to risk the rest. Not with things on the border as they are.”

“We took heavy losses, it’s true,” Tybalt admitted. “General Balkas has to consider the war, not merely the battle.”

“So we’re keeping course to Redditch while Lieutenant Handsy’s off to Lyonesse,” said Doran. “Good riddance. I hope crows eat his—”

The rest of that sentiment was swallowed in a yelp as Connell stamped on Doran’s foot.

Before Doran could say anything else, Connell asked Tybalt, “What about Major Davies, sir? His ankle’s badly spained, he’s in no condition to ride the King’s Road.”

“The Major will stay with the company,” said Tybalt. “Your master has generously offered him use of your services, Connell, until he can avail himself of proper care at Redditch.”

But Connell was only half-listening. He’d caught sight of something in the cart—or rather, something missing.

“Master Toby, where’s your swordroll?” Connell asked.

“Swordroll? What swordroll?” said Toby innocently.

“Oh, don’t you even bloody _try_ ,” said Doran, voice rising.

Tybalt crooked a finger at Luca. They left Doran and Toby to shout into each others’ faces while Connell tried in vain to get between them.

Master Balkas’s foul mood was an almost physical presence in the tent. Tybalt wasted no time vanishing after he’d delivered Luca. The leather flap slapped closed behind him, leaving Luca alone with his master.

The table was spread with a map of the Midlands. Certain points were marked with tacks connected by colored string. They’d used the same system in the King’s War Room at Highcourt to map troop movements. Master Balkas was scowling at Tybalt’s report (which he was holding upside down); it was easy for Luca to let his downcast eyes linger on the map long enough to imprint it in his memory.

Master Balkas tossed down the report.

“Arkwright wants you for the night,” he said without preamble.

Luca had expected as much. Arkwright was a high-ranked officer and Master Balkas’s guest. It made perfect sense for Luca to be sent to his bed. That was how men of their station established alliances, after all. If Luca had any purpose in his master’s household, it was this. He had no right to an opinion about it.

 _No right to any opinions at all, hole_.

But apparently Master Balkas had been expecting some sort of reaction.

“Well?” he snapped. “Are you surprised?”

“S-surprised, Master?”

“That a dog like Arkwright would dare ask a man like me for such a degrading favor.”

“I—I’m sorry, Master, I d-don’t—”

Master Balkas pushed himself to his feet. He’d stripped down to his shirt; the muscles in his chest and arms were corded tight under the thin linen. Doran had called Master Balkas soft-handed, but it wasn’t true. He still had a soldier’s strength. If he wanted to, he could break Luca apart.

“I have given twenty-five years of my life to Solas,” said Master Balkas, with quiet, terrifying deliberation. “My record of service is impeccable. I am the youngest officer ever elevated to the rank of General, and the only one not born a gentleman. Do you have any idea how many battles I’ve fought? How many medals I’ve won? How many men trust me with their lives?”

He slammed his hand on the table.

“I will not be reduced to a pimp!”

Luca went very still. Behind his back, his clasped hands wrang each other bloodless.

Master Balkas shoved himself away from the table and began to pace.

“That damned Arkwright. The nerve of him! Making a joke of me with Davies like they always did at school. Interfering with _my_ slave at _my_ table. It was a provocation, that’s what it was, a deliberate provocation! Twenty-five years and they’re still trying to put me in my place. Balkas the peasant, Balkas the prig…”

He rounded on Luca, eyes wild.

“Ever since His Majesty cursed me with you, it’s been one humiliation after another. And now you go and throw yourself at Arkwright like a tavern slut. Practically crawled into his lap, didn’t you? Gods, a scant month without a man taking you to bed and you’re gagging for it. Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”

Luca’s throat had gone so tight that he felt the ghost of Master Crawley’s hand closed around it, squeezing. It was almost a relief to let himself drop to his knees and press his forehead to the floor. He’d wanted to beg so many times since being given to Master Balkas, to apologize for being such a useless, used-up whore, that the words came easily.

“Please, Master, I’m s-sorry, I—I’m a slut, I’m stupid—a worthless, brainless barbarian _—_ it was all my fault, but I won’t do it again, I swear, I _swear_ —”

Master Balkas might not have known nobles’ hand gestures, but the blunt slashing motion he made was enough to silence Luca instantly.

“You’d better not,” said Master Balkas. “If you ever let anything like this happen again, I’ll send you straight back to Highcourt, His Majesty’s displeasure be damned. Do you understand?”

All Luca could see was blood on marble. He could taste it in the back of his mouth, edged with the nauseating sweetness of wine and bliss. When he spoke, his voice sounded like it was coming from far away.

“Yes, Master. Thank you for being so patient with me, sir.”

“Get up.”

Luca obeyed, though he couldn’t help feeling that it was safer on the floor. Master Balkas’s hands were clenched into fists at his sides; standing, Luca was within striking distance. But Master Balkas simply looked at him with disgust, as though he’d been offered a dish of rotting food.

“Gods above,” said Master Balkas, shaking his head. “What do they all see in you?”

“I don’t know, sir,” said Luca fervently.

“Neither do I. Let that be the only thing we ever have in common.”

Master Balkas picked up a letter from the table. It was written on the memo paper that was used to send messages around the camp. Luca recognized Tybalt’s brisk hand.

“This is for the hostler, ordering horses be readied for Arkwright and a dozen riders from the Cavalry,” said Master Balkas. “You’ll have to read it to him. He’s illiterate.” His eyes narrowed. “Unless you can’t manage even a simple errand without disgracing me?”

“Yes, Master. I mean no, Master. I mean—I won’t disgrace you, sir, I promise.”

“Good. Then get the hell out of my sight.”

It wasn’t until Luca stumbled out of Master Balkas’s tent that he could breathe again. But there was something wrong with his eyes. They were full of—floaters? No, not floaters, splinters—bright white splinters of candelight glinting off the banquet hall chandelier. It swung like an axe, a pendulum, oscillating around and around and dragging Luca with it—

—right into someone walking in the opposite direction.

“Whoah, there!” said Fergus, grabbing his arms. “Well, if it isn’t Doran’s Mouse. I must be the luckiest man in the company, running into you twice in one day.”

Luca dug the heels of his palms into his eyes. _Idiot,_ he told himself sternly. _This isn’t Highcourt._

When he took his hands away, the lights were gone. Fergus was looking at him with sympathy.

“You look like the General’s just given you a right coring-out,” he said. “Trust me, I know the feeling.” Fergus nodded at the message clutched in Luca’s hand. “He want you to deliver that?”

“Yes, sir. To the hostler.”

“I’m headed that way myself. Come on.”

Luca had no choice but to follow. He expected Fergus to pull him into a copse of trees or throw him down behind a bush, but the man had something else in mind.

“Word’s gone round about those riders,” said Fergus. “They’re saying Absalom’s fallen to Kenever.”

Fergus’s tone was casual, but he slit Luca a sideways glance. _Fishing,_ Luca thought. He’d probably been hanging around Master Balkas’s tent on purpose, waiting to waylay someone who could be pumped for information.

When Luca didn’t reply, Fergus shot him a knowing grin.

“You needn’t worry you’ll get in trouble for unbuttoning your lip to me, lad. Balkas might be a stick-in-the-mud, but he doesn’t keep things from his men. Not like the rest of the officers.”

Which was exactly what Fergus would say if he was trying to get a stupid slave to spill its master’s secrets. But Luca hadn’t been asked a direct question; there was no reason for him to say anything at all.

Fortunately they arrived at the hostler’s train before Fergus had time to press the point. The hostler was easy to find. He smelled even more strongly of horse than Arkwright, and his broad, flat face had the look of having been kicked in by more than one set of hooves. When the hostler spoke, Luca saw that he was missing most of his front teeth.

“Tho General Balkas wants thirteen horses thaddled for the morning, eh?” he lisped. “’th a bad number, thirteen. Glad ith not my luck he’th playing with.”

Luca was glad, too. He didn’t think the hostler could afford to lose any more teeth.

Fergus waited out of earshot as Luca relayed Master Balkas’s message, smoking a cigarette and pointedly not eavesdropping. Once Luca had finished, Fergus tossed down the dog-end and strode over.

“I can bring you back to Doran and Connell,” he said. “They’d have my hide if they knew I let you go flouncing around camp without an escort.”

Luca hadn’t known that he was flouncing; he’d always thought he walked normally. But maybe this whole time he’d been moving wrong without realizing. Drawing attention to himself. ( _Like a tavern slut. Gagging for it._ ) That would make sense. Luca didn’t know how to do anything like a real person, even move from one place to another.

“Thank you, sir,” he said.

Fergus started back in mock surprise.

“He speaks!” Seeing Luca’s expression, he laughed. “Ah, don’t look like that, Mouse. Just having a bit of fun.”

Luca knew from long experience not to trust the sort of fun that free men liked to have with him. But at least Fergus didn’t seem to want him for sex. That was something to be grateful for. Luca was still jittery from being handled by Arkwright and shouted at by Master Balkas. If Fergus tried to touch him, Luca was afraid he might do something ridiculous, like burst into tears.

“My brother’s posted at Absalom, you know,” said Fergus suddenly. “Arnie. We enlisted together.”

Luca was following Fergus; he had to crane his neck to see the man’s face. He’d expected to see guile, but there was no trace of it. Fergus wore his usual grin; only the tightness at the corners of his mouth and eyes belied it.

“I’m sorry, sir,” said Luca.

“Ah, don’t be,” said Fergus, shrugging. “I’m not worried. Arnie’s a smart one. Knows how to read the wind and turn where it’s headed.”

Fergus looked back over his shoulder and winked.

“He learned that from me.”

That night, Doran and Connell took forever to get each other off. Luca listened to their eager panting, the rustle of hands under bedrolls, and tried not to scream with impatience. Part of him wished he could take over just to hurry things along. Even out of practice, Luca knew tricks that would make a man come before he even knew what was happening.

At last, the rustling sped up to a frenzy before slowing down. One of them sighed contentedly. The other murmured something. Soft laughter, fading into the softer sounds of kissing.

Luca felt—sadness? No, not exactly. It was more like the feeling of seeing a fire roar in a hearth, but being too far away to warm himself inside the circle of golden light.

Once Connell and Doran’s breathing had slowed into the rhythm of sleep, Luca crept out of his bedroll. The moon was nearly full; the rays spilling through the rent in the canvas illuminated Connell’s satchel hanging from the centerpole. Luca half-expected Connell to bolt upright when he lifted the flap.

But Connell was snoring into the dark thatch of hair on Doran’s chest. He didn’t stir.

 _I’m sorry_ , Luca told him silently, pocketing the packet of fluxweed. _I’ll make it up to you, I promise._

Outside, the night was cool and crisp. Though the campfires had been extinguished hours ago, the air still held the scent of smoke. It became denser as Luca entered the main camp. He pulled Doran’s wool cap lower over his brow, tucking stray hair inside the brim. The further he got from the slaves’ tents, the more difficult it would be to pass himself off as simply lost.

Good thing the Harlequin had provided Luca with so much practice in sneaking out of the dormitory to read. He knew how to tread silently and keep to the shadows.

Luca had worried that he might not be able to find his way back to the hostler’s train, but his feet remembered the route. That was Mr. Kemp’s training. He’d taught Luca how to count turns and note landmarks that others would miss. Mr. Kemp said that no matter where you went, you had to be constantly drawing a map in your head. That way you could never be lost.

As Luca expected, the horses requisitioned for the journey back to Lyonesse were already tacked up and tied to the hitching post, ready to be ridden out at dawn. What he hadn’t anticipated was how much larger those horses would look at night. They loomed in the darkness, their outlines blurring into masses of shadow. Luca’s feet faltered.

He shook himself. _Don’t be such a coward_ , he admonished. Robert had been arrested, _branded_ —Lady, what if he’d been put in chains? _Beaten?_ Luca didn’t even want to think about it. But Robert was so brave, so full of wit and daring. He didn’t give up. He fought the men who’d hurt him, and he won _._ Robert always won.

And here Luca was, cringing at horses. He ought to be ashamed of himself.

Still, he had his heart in his throat as he unbuckled the waterskin from the first horse’s saddle—and nearly swallowed it when the hot silky flank twitched under his hand.

But the horse didn’t wake. Its big head lolled as it nickered softly, blowing grassy puffs of air into its feedbag.

Luca breathed a sigh of relief. He should’ve remembered that horses were as used to being handled as he was.

He went from horse to horse, dissolving fluxweed into the waterskin attached to each saddle. _A pinch will clear your system right out,_ Connell had said. Arkwright and his men would still get to Lyonesse eventually, but this would slow them down. It would give Robert and Ged more time to do whatever they were going to do next.

Robert had a plan, Luca was sure of it. And Luca would do whatever he could to help.

Once he’d shaken the remaining fluxweed into the last waterskin, Luca went around again, this time dividing a sugarcube into the horses’ feedbags.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into each downy ear. “It’s for the greater good, I promise.”

By the time Luca was finished, the moon was sinking below the hills. Checking the stars, he saw that Syr the Shieldmaiden had moved into her Western House. Dawn wasn’t far off, then. The Cavalry would be waking soon, and Arkwright with them.

That thought was enough to give Luca wings. He’d almost made it back to the slaves’ tents when a familiar figure stepped into his path.

“You’ve strayed rather far afield, haven’t you?” Hodge drawled.

Luca froze, stomach plummeting. Then, in the next instant, habit kicked in. It was the work of a moment to summon his most empty-headed expression.

“I’m sorry, sir. I went to make water, but it’s so dark. I got lost coming back.”

“Of course you did,” Hodge chuckled. “Gods, you really are daft, aren’t you? Daft and lovely.”

He pulled off Luca’s hat and tossed it aside. Luca made an abortive move to catch it. Doran had brought that hat with him from Chesten. If it was ruined, Luca would never forgive himself.

Hodge was oblivious to Luca’s distress. He’d pulled Luca’s hair from its braid and was admiring the way the gold went silver in the moonlight.

“Hector really ought take better care of you,” Hodge sighed. “If you were mine, I wouldn’t let you within a mile of men like Cletus Arkwright. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

He tightened his hand around Luca’s hair, forcing him to bare his throat.

“How would you like that, hm? To be kept hidden away in my bedchamber, safe and sound?”

Luca would not like that at all. And, far more importantly, Master Balkas would be furious if he found out that Luca was letting this happen to him again.

_Twice in the same day, hole? You really are the worst kind of trouble. No wonder your owner doesn’t think you're worth keeping._

“Please, sir,” said Luca softly, trying to keep the tremor from his voice. “Please, if my master knew—”

Hodge yanked his hair, hard enough to tear out strands at the root.

“If your master knew what? That his dearest and most trusted friend was waylaid by a well-known barbarian slut?”

Hodge shoved Luca back with enough force to send him staggering. His shoulders hit something solid. The cart. Hodge pressed him to it. He was all hands and teeth, grinding himself against Luca’s limp body and thrusting a wine-wet tongue down his throat. Absently, Luca wondered how many of the confiscated bottles Hodge had kept back for himself.

“What do you think Hector would do if I told him how you rubbed yourself against me like a cat in heat?” Hodge hissed. “How you begged to suck my cock?”

He slammed Luca against the cart, hard enough to knock the breath out of him.

“ _Beg_.”

Luca closed his eyes. This shouldn’t be difficult. Hodge had told him what to say.

_Nothing you haven’t said before, hole. Nothing you won’t say again._

“Please, sir,” Luca whispered. “Please let me suck your cock.”

“Well, since you asked so nicely.”

Hodge shoved Luca to his knees.

 _This is your punishment_ , Master Trainer informed him as Hodge fumbled his breeches open. _You’ve betrayed your owner and connived against free men. What do you have to say for yourself, hole?_

Luca ducked his head to hide his fleeting, secret smile.

 _Worth it_ , he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last three months have been nothing but grad school/work and election/phonebanking. If you, like me, are in the United States and all but paralyzed with concern for our rapidly vanishing democracy, please consider volunteering with the New Georgia Project:
> 
> https://newgeorgiaproject.org/volunteer/become-a-volunteer/


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last: WOMEN! That being said, please note that this is a deeply misogynistic culture with strict gender divisions that grow wider the higher in society you go. This chapter contains references to violence (including sexual violence) against women and girls. I’m also going to spoil upfront that the chapter depicts a trans character being outed without their explicit consent, and there’s a brief reference to transphobia.

When Robert first arrived at Lightcliffe Hall, it was decided that he had so much to learn and so little time to learn it in that every morning he was awoken at 5 o’clock, dumped into a bath, stuffed into his clothes, and then dragged to some lesson or another, all while protesting at full voice.

“I’m a free citizen under the Imperium, you know,” Robert told Tolliver as he was being frog-marched down the corridor. “I have rights.”

“No one has rights at Lightcliffe Hall,” Tolliver retorted. “Only privileges, bestowed at the pleasure of His Lordship.”

Now, at Absalom, Robert was discovering that being part of a major military operation worked in much the same way. A hierarchy had been installed overnight, with Tam Tregeryth at the top and the middle ranks of command filled out with Alfred, Tyburn, Freddie Bustament, and Merton, along with a half dozen of Tam’s most trusted Dogs.

At Robert’s suggestion, the former prisoners were invited to choose one of their own to represent them. They unanimously elected a gaunt old man with a nimbus of woolly hair and eyes crackling with electrical intensity. Everyone called him the Professor. Robert was astonished to learn that he’d been a real Professor of Mathematics at the University before his arrest.

“I made what I thought was a witty remark comparing the slowness of the Department in updating our calculus curriculum to the marvelous efficiency of the Erminian peasantry in rounding up aristocrats and marching them to the guillotine,” the Professor told Robert. “The next thing I knew, I was being hauled out of my office in irons. Thirty years in prison for a bad joke! Well, at least I’ve had time to work on Espinal’s Paradox. If you’d left me in here another decade, I might’ve had it solved.”

Robert decided that he liked the Professor.

To his shock, Robert found that he had been nominated as Tam’s second in command. “When was this decided?” he hissed at Alfred, during one of the rare moments they weren’t dashing around opposite ends of the keep. “I didn’t get a vote!”

“Oh, stow it, Robert,” said Alfred irritably. “Like it or not, you’re the best one for the job. There’s not a man here who doesn’t owe you his life, me included. If we think you’re worth following, then you’re going to shut up and bloody well lead. Got it?”

Alfred stalked away before Robert could reply.

“You’ve got a funny way of reassuring people!” Robert called after him.

He turned to see Asher watching him with amusement.

“You’re worse than me at trying to wriggle out of things,” Asher said. “But I don’t think you want out, really. You like ordering people about too much.”

“I do _not_ ,” said Robert, “like ordering people about.” Honesty forced him to add, “I just like to see things done right, that’s all. And I’m a lord, so people listen to me.”

“You’re not a lord anymore,” Asher pointed out, “and they still listen.”

Robert was about to retort that this was simply his Argent blood asserting itself—but no, he didn’t believe that. He never really had. Even before reading Hugo’s seditious books ( _Oh, Hugo_ ), he’d seen enough of the world to know that while heredity might predispose many things, leadership was not among them. Besides, he’d met too many lords at school who couldn’t be trusted to conduct a penny orchestra, never mind a prison uprising.

No, whatever quality Robert had that made people listen to him, it had nothing to do with being an Argent. He must’ve had it all along without knowing. Fields of hell, how strange to be as old as twenty and still discovering new pieces of himself! That might’ve bothered him if he’d had time to dwell on it.

Which, thankfully, he didn’t. There was too much to do. Tam had set Robert in charge of coordinating the rebuilding of Absalom’s defenses. They had no idea when Arkwright and Davies would catch up to Balkas’s detachment, and no way of knowing whether Balkas would send them to Lyonesse for reinforcements or turn his own men around and march for Absalom.

Robert didn’t know which to hope for. If Balkas was headed towards them, that meant Luca was drawing nearer, too—and nearer to danger which Robert could do maddeningly little to protect him from. Better for him to be far away at Redditch if it meant he was safe.

But what if Luca wasn’t safe? What if Balkas was mistreating him? What if he was frightened or hungry or hurt? Robert didn’t _know_. All he knew was that if he let himself think about Luca for too long, he would go utterly mad.

Almost as maddening was the hand that dangled uselessly from his right wrist. Robert had never known that pain could be so _boring._ It just went on and on, sometimes better, mostly worse, but never wholly absent. He visited Quinby every few days to get another dose of painkiller, but it was obvious that he would never again enjoy the reprieve granted by that first injection.

“You’ve built up a tolerance, I’m afraid,” Quinby explained. “This drug’s virtue is also its vice: there’s no risk of dependance, but the body learns to metabolize it too quickly for it to remain effective for long. There _is_ morphine—”

“No,” said Robert, thinking of Fanny’s dreamy opium smile.

“Wise of you,” said Quinby. “If it’s any comfort, your hand is healing faster and more completely than I ever dared hope. And the brand is scarring over beautifully.”

The brand was covered by a bandage during the day. At night, laying sleepless on a cot under a narrow window, Robert found his eyes returning to it. The hand rested on his stomach, illuminated by a bar of moonlight. The brand spanned from wrist to knuckles, a ridge of blistered, knotted, blood-red scar crowned by a constellation of puncture wounds.

As Robert stared at the hand, its fingers twitched. Tendons flexed grotesquely under the sheath of ruined skin. It looked like the hand of a monster.

But Luca had held that hand. He’d kissed it. Those fingers had stroked his face. Gods, what would he say if Robert tried to touch him now?

 _Oh, shut it_ , Robert told himself. Enough melodrama. He had no business wallowing when some people had lost far more than a hand. Besides, the hand— _his_ hand—hadn’t even been lost. There it was, still attached to the rest of him. A bit worse for the wear, perhaps, but still functional. Still holdable, even, if Luca was brave.

Which he was, of course. Luca was the bravest person Robert knew. Robert might try borrowing a little of that courage for himself. Gods knew he needed it.

When Luca first arrived in Lyonesse, he was so weak from being sick on the journey over that he had to be carried to Master Commissioner’s carriage. He’d had a watery view of black rooftops converging on the skyline—and, turning his head, of many little dark-haired people crowding in to get a look at the loot being unloaded from the ship. Beyond that, the dock fell away, and he had a brief, dizzying sense of the city, teeming with noise and life.

Then Luca had been dumped in the back of the carriage with the rest of his master’s baggage, and there was nothing more of Lyonesse to see.

Luca fully expected that he would be shut away again once they got to Redditch. Master Balkas might not want a pleasure slave, but he would be only too happy for the excuse to lock Luca out of sight and mind. And it would be worse than with Master Commissioner, or even Master Crawley, because Master Balkas would have no reason to visit him.

Luca remembered vividly the mix of dread and longing with which he used to look forward to his masters’ visits. Sometimes the wait was so endless that Luca sank into a dreamlike state in which he was unable to tell whether he was alive or dead. Then his master would arrive and do things that made Luca wish that he _was_ dead—but at least he’d speak to Luca, touch him, remind him that he could still move and breathe and bleed. Luca would cling to him, half-frantic with gratitude, muffling stupid little noises of pain as his master took what he wanted. _You have to make it good_ , he’d remind himself. Otherwise his master would have no reason to come back.

Luca imagined waiting like that again—kneeling, naked, eyes fixed on the outline of a door that would never open, ears straining to hear the footfalls that would never come—and had to slip away so that he could vomit into a bush.

“All right, Mouse?” Doran asked when he returned.

Luca nodded. There was no point bothering Connell and Doran with his problems. He’d caused them enough trouble already. Anyway, there was nothing they could do.

With every mile marker they passed, the pit in Luca’s stomach got bigger and bigger until there wasn’t room for anything else. At dinner, he pushed the food around his plate until Toby saw an opening and scarfed it. That was something to be thankful for, at least; Luca didn’t want Connell to worry that he wasn’t eating.

The worst part of being shut away would be losing Connell and Doran. Luca knew that he had no right to friends— _No right to anything good, hole_ —but still, he ached in his chest to think that he wouldn’t get to hear Doran’s booming laugh or watch Connell’s hand fly across the page as he sketched.

It didn’t help that alongside the ache was a deeper emptiness in the shape of Asher.

 _Stupid to miss him so much,_ Luca told himself. _He isn’t missing you. Not now that he’s free._

Luca didn’t fool himself that Asher would still want to be his friend. They’d been thrown together by bad luck on Asher’s part and good luck on Luca’s, and Luca had been selfish enough, greedy enough, to take advantage of Asher’s misfortune. No doubt Asher had realized that by now. Luca just hoped he wasn’t too angry. _Barbarians have all kinds of dirty tricks,_ Asher had said once, and in Luca’s case, anyway, it was true. Lord Argent was right: Luca tricked people into caring about him. He didn’t even know he was doing it, that’s how dangerous he was.

And he was dangerous. Just look what had happened to Robert. He’d lost everything because of Luca. He’d been arrested. Tortured. Lady, he probably hated Luca almost as much as Luca hated himself.

It was a good thing that Luca was going to be shut away. He should be grateful. At least he couldn’t ruin anyone else’s life from behind a locked door.

That thought settled over Luca’s mind like smog. He was so distracted that he barely registered passing through the great wooden gates of Redditch.

All at once, they were surrounded by throngs of cheering soldiers. Luca had the same dizzying sense of scale as when he’d been taken off the ship—but that had only been a moment, and this went on and on. Redditch was _enormous._ Luca had never seen so many people in one place in his life.

Lady—there were women, even! Luca glimpsed them through the press of red uniforms, waving handkerchiefs and calling out in high, trilling voices. It’d been so long since he’d seen a woman that for a moment Luca thought they might be dandies in dresses. But no, the front parts were filled out with real bosom! Luca was so astonished by the sheer novelty of it that he forgot not to stare.

“Camp followers,” said Connell, following Luca’s eyes. “There’s about an equal number of boys, too. Most are local, but some come from as far as Lyonesse. They make a fortune on their backs. I overheard one lass bragging that she used her earnings to set up her old auntie in a cottage on the south coast.”

“They’re _free?_ ” asked Luca, incredulous. “All of them?”

“To a one. They’ll claw each other’s’ eyes out over a crown, but anytime a pimp tries to move in with owned whores, they muster quicker than the Cavalry to drive out the competition.”

That made sense. At the training house, the boys had been taught that free whores envied pleasure slaves. Boys like Luca were rare and valuable commodities produced for the consumption of discerning gentlemen with high standards and deep pockets—and then, at the other end of the market, there were the slaves who ended up chained to a bed in a dockside basement. Men could go to a fuckhouse and spend a few pennies to rut a loose hole or save their wages for a night with a real pleasure slave at a brothel like the Harlequin. If they were rich enough, they could even buy a whore for their own exclusive use.

Free prostitutes filled out the flesh market’s middle tier. They weren’t as bad off as the slaves at the bottom, but they didn’t have the prestige—or the protection—of the slaves at the top.

Luca just hoped that the camp followers wouldn’t see him as competition. He’d never been attacked by a woman before, but he didn’t think it would be any better than being attacked by a man.

As if hearing that thought, Connell said, “Don’t worry, lad, you won’t have to protect your eyes. Strictly speaking, camp followers aren’t allowed in the garrison proper. There must’ve been an exception made so they could welcome the General home.”

Connell was in high spirits, Luca realized. Doran, too. They kept shouting to people they recognized in the crowd. Luca wished they wouldn’t. Curious gazes were already crawling over him; he didn’t want to draw any more attention. He ducked his head, letting stray hair fall around his face like a curtain. Doran had given Luca his wool cap to wear (only a little misshapen from Hodge’s careless handling); he pulled it lower over his brow.

“You look like you’re trying to disappear into your own shadow,” said Doran, looking at Luca over his shoulder. “Not a fan of crowds, I take it?”

Luca tried to shrug, but somehow ended up with his arms wrapped around himself.

“How many soldiers are there?” he whispered.

“A few thousand, I should think.” Seeing Luca blanch, Doran said kindly, “Settle your mind, Mouse. You’ll be even safer here than you were on march. They might be good-for-nothings, but the men won’t touch Master Balkas’s boy, not with him returning a hero and all.”

Luca didn’t think Master Balkas would mind if the men dropped him down a well, but he supposed they didn’t know that.

Anyway, it didn’t matter. Luca would be locked away soon enough. Perhaps he’d be so desperate for company that he’d wish Master Balkas would let the soldiers have him after all.

Quinby might be the only doctor Robert and Ged had ever liked, but there were things that Quinby didn’t need to know. He exhibited a streak of total hysteria when it came to, e.g., combat practice, which he had for some inexplicable reason decided to forbid. Robert and Ged agreed that as there was no point worrying the poor man, they simply wouldn’t tell him about the training sessions they were holding. It would only upset him.

Besides, the men needed training badly. This was especially true of the former prisoners, but only a handful of the ex-guards had any idea of what to do in a real skirmish. As for the Bustament Boys, they might be expert saboteurs, but the overthrow of Absalom was their first brush with melee combat, and—with the exception of Freddie and Wim, who could scrap like dogs out of hell—their hand-to-hand fighting skills were rudimentary.

Fortunately having such a mixed group was excellent practice. Robert and Ged divided them into pairs, larger fighters with smaller ones. The Bustament Boys were reluctant to split up. They eyed their partners warily and shot each other speaking looks. Robert was reminded of the cliques at University and how unwilling students had been to mingle outside their circles. Well, they would all have to learn to work outside their little gangs if the rebels had any hope of defending Absalom.

“Right,” said Robert, using Grandfather’s trick of projecting his voice. “Today we’re going to be working on grappling a larger opponent. Freddie?”

Freddie swaggered over. He was at least six inches shorter than Robert, but powerfully built, with a boxer’s broad chest and arms. He was also a skilled fighter, which meant he could help Robert demonstrate moves in ways that didn’t force him to use his injured hand.

Robert and Freddie took the group through a leg hook in slow motion. Then they repeated the move in real time. Robert’s bad hand chose exactly that moment to cramp up, sending cold heat ripping up his right arm. He shot out his good hand to steady himself on Freddie’s shoulder, but Freddie had lost his balance. He adjusted his stance, bringing his shoulder out of range. Robert’s hand landed palm-down on his chest.

There was no mistaking what lay under the front of Freddie’s tunic.

Robert snatched his hand back. Freddie dropped his leg. For a moment, they stared at each other in horror.

“Right,” said Robert. “Everyone practice using that leg hook to get your opponent on the ground. Then deploy the hold we drilled yesterday to keep them there.” To Freddie, in undertone, he said, “A word?”

They went out into the hallway and leaned against the wall with forced casualness. They couldn’t meet each other’s eyes.

“So,” said Robert, after an excruciating silence. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me?”

“Nothing you haven’t already figured out,” Freddie muttered.

Robert had a cigarette that he’d been saving for a particularly trying moment. That moment seemed to have arrived. He snapped his case open and pulled the cigarette out with his teeth, then replaced the case, withdrew his lighter, and lit the cigarette in a single-handed operation that was becoming defter with each execution.

“I take it Freddie’s short for Frederica?” said Robert, exhaling blue smoke.

Freddie cast a longing look at his cigarette. “Winifred, if you must know.”

“And Jordie?”

“Jordette.”

Robert proffered the cigarette; Freddie took it gratefully. As she took a deep drag that reduced the tip to ash, Robert tried to imagine her in skirts, hair grown out and pinned up. But it was impossible. She was still a boy to him, whatever her tunic hid.

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” Robert said. “But if you’re willing to tell me, I’d certainly like to know.”

Freddie took another drag. Robert knew her well enough by now to understand that what looked like a scowl was actually an expression of fierce thought. She was trying to decide where to begin.

“After mam died, dad sold Jordie,” said Freddie, not bothering with preamble. “He wouldn’t tell me where. So I waited til he’d passed out drunk and chained him up in the barn and when he woke up I told him I’d leave him there without a drop of booze until he got the horrors. Then he told me.” She gave Robert a grim smile. “I tossed the key through the window after I was done lighting the roof on fire. Doubt he got to it in time, though. Rum always did make him slow.

“The place dad sold Jordie, it was…bad. Not that there’s any good mills, mind. But where she was, the girls were chained up, stirring boiling water in the felting vats ’til their arms gave out, or bent over their needles twenty hours a day, stitching pretty little flowers for the rich ladies in Lyonesse. The girls that’d been there for a while, their hands were knotted up with cramps like an old person’s. Some’d gone half-blind. Others had burns all over. Lots were missing bits from the looms—fingers, toes. One’d had her legs crushed. Bones all broken, skin rotting where the shards poked through, but still, they had her stitching. Dying and stitching.

“Anyway, that was the first factory we blew up. Some of the kids could go home, but most were like me’n Jordie. No home to go to. So that’s how we got started. Bombing factories, freeing debt slaves. The Bustament Boys.”

Freddie imbued the last word with such drawling irony that an image of the Bustament Boys flashed in Robert’s mind: two dozen skinny, scrappy urchins with no beards and small hands.

“Fields of hell, you’re _all girls?_ ”

Robert said this rather louder than he intended. A passerby gave him a funny look. Freddie drove her elbow into his stomach.

“Keep your fucking voice down!” she hissed. “Of course we’re all girls, you nunce. The mills don’t take boys, their hands are too big.”

“I’m sorry! It’s something of a mental adjustment!”

“Adjust quieter! We don’t need anyone else knowing about us. Melita’s tits, why’d you think we started passing as boys in the first place?”

Robert was about to retort, then thought better of it. Freddie was right, of course. Robert had heard enough of Fanny’s stories to know how dangerous the world was for lowborn girls, never mind a band of child runaways. None of the Bustament Boys (Girls?) could be older than sixteen, except for—

“ _Silva_ ,” Robert breathed. “Is he…?”

Freddie hesitated.

“Silva’s—himself,” she said carefully. “A self-made man, you might say.”

For a moment, Robert didn’t understand—and then, all at once, he did. Men like that came to the gentleman’s parlors sometimes, and Harrow employed a number of their female counterparts. _Fuddled_ , they were called in Docktown, or ’ _twixt_ , which was supposed to be the more polite term, though it had never seemed to Robert like much of an improvement. From what he knew of Ibrerra, it was run by the gangs and the Church; he doubted Silva had found any more tolerance there. Perhaps this was why he’d been thrown out of university.

 _No wonder he likes blowing things up,_ Robert thought.

Freddie was watching him with narrowed eyes.

“If you tell anyone—”

“I won’t,” said Robert. “You have my word. And my protection, for whatever it’s worth.”

Freddie gave him a long, searching look. Then she nodded.

“Yeah, I trust you. The others do, too. They voted to tell you ages ago, but I was worried you might—well.” A muscle twitched in her jaw. “Our dad was a real bastard. Guess it’s given me a certain outlook on men. But Asher says you don’t go for girls, anyway.”

“ _Asher_ knows about you?”

“Jordie told him,” said Freddie, rolling her eyes. “Mooning idiot.”

“Are the two of them…?”

“Nah. He told her he’s got someone back home.”

This was news to Robert. As far as he knew, Asher had spent the last year running interference between Lightcliffe and The Thorn. If he’d found a lover somewhere between, he’d certainly played it close to his chest. Then again, Asher wasn’t exactly forthcoming about his private life. Perhaps he’d met someone at The Thorn. If so, Robert hoped they’d escaped the arrests. Asher had suffered enough heartbreak for a lifetime.

“Does it matter to you?” asked Freddie abruptly. “Us being girls?”

“I wouldn’t care if you were a herd of purple-spotted elephants as long as you could swing a sword,” said Robert frankly. “I’ll make sure you’re all paired up together during grappling exercises from now on.”

“Good,” said Freddie.

She gave him what was left of the cigarette (very little, Robert was pained to see) and turned to go. Suddenly she turned back and added, with supreme reluctance, “Thanks.”

Robert was astonished. “Whatever for?”

“You’re worth trusting,” said Freddie with a shrug. “Most aren’t.” Then, “Make me regret it and I’ll cut your todger off.”

“If I ever give you cause for regret,” said Robert with a bow, “I shall cut my todger off myself.”

“I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again,” Doran panted, dragging a crate through the door of Master Balkas’s new lodgings. “Free people have too much shit.”

“Says the man who’s humped a sack of odds and ends all over Solas,” Connell retorted. He sat back on his heels and wiped his brow, leaving behind a streak of dirt. “Gods above, Luca, we’ve been scrubbing this floor for a dog’s age and it still looks like tar. Is this grime, do you think, or just the color of the wood?”

“Grime,” said Luca decidedly, wringing gray water from his washrag. “But we’re making progress, see? The water used to wring out black.”

Doran groaned. “Of all your vices, Mouse, that bloody-minded optimism has got to be the worst.”

Three months ago, Luca would have cowered. Now he laughed.

“That’s why you need me,” he said. “I balance out your brooding.”

Doran reared back in mock outrage. Before he could retort, Master Balkas stalked in with a trail of flustered-looking underlings hurrying in his wake.

“Having fun, are we?” said Master Balkas acidly. “Go on, laugh it up. If this floor’s not spotless by dinnertime, the three of you will be eating off it.”

By silent agreement, Luca, Doran, and Connell retreated to the edge of the room furthest from Master Balkas, where they went to work on the baseboards with such energy and enthusiasm that their master had no choice but to turn his bad temper on the underlings instead.

“Do you mean to tell me,” growled Master Balkas, swinging around to glare at a harried Sergeant, “that you’ve been pissing away several hundred crown a month on _barley?_ ”

“Yes, General. With the utmost respect, sir, that’s still several hundred crown below market value. The farmers have families to feed—”

“And I’ve a war to fight! Explain to the farmers, using very small words, that our men are all that stand between them and the Keneverites, and if their villages are swarmed by Guyish thugs, they will have fattened their stupid peasant children up for slaughter. Understood?”

“Yes, General.”

“And another thing,” Master Balkas began. Then he paused and squinted at Luca. “What is that?”

“M-master?”

“That thing around your neck!”

“My collar, Master?”

“Yes! Why is it gold?”

“I-I don’t know, Master.”

“It’s got _designs_ on it. Like some sort of _jewelry_.”

“I’m sorry, Master.”

Master Balkas gave Luca a look of deep pain and turned to Doran.

“Take him to the smith and have it replaced,” he ordered. “ _Now._ This instant. And tell the smith to melt the stupid thing down for coin.” As they backed out the door, he shouted after them, “I am running this garrison on a _shoestring!_ ”

If Redditch was a body, the forge was its beating heart. All the paths that wound through the garrison seemed to lead like arteries to the low, open building breathing out heat and the dense smell of metal. Men in leather aprons clanged hammers on anvils and tended to the great smoldering furnaces. The smiths were a mix of free men and slaves, but they mingled so easily that Luca wouldn’t have been able to distinguish one from the other if not for the slaves’ collars.

Doran led Luca to where a black-haired slave worked bent over an anvil. He had massive soot-blackened hands on forearms so thick with muscle they looked like bundles of rope. The bundles twisted as he worked, making grooves for sweat to run down. He looked so fearsome that Luca slipped behind Doran in the hope of not being seen.

Then the smith looked up and gave Doran a smile that transformed him from a titan to a brawny man who bore considerable resemblance to a stuffed bear.

“Dor! I was hoping you’d come round. And who’s that hiding in your skirts?”

Doran saw that Luca had ducked behind him and made a noise of impatience.

“Finn, this is Luca,” said Doran, pushing Luca forward. “Luca, Finn.”

Finn gave a low whistle. “Well, you don’t see a boy like that every day. Where on the gods’ green earth did you pick him up?”

“Highcourt. The King loaned him to my master as a reward for valor and bravery and intestinal fortitude and so on.”

“I’ll bet that made the General’s day.”

“Oh, he’s thrilled.”

“Well, what can I do for Balkas’s beautiful reward?”

“My master wants his fancy collar swapped out for a regular one.”

Finn groaned. “Gods strike me now! Fancy’s too weak a word—I’ll bet my eyeteeth that’s solid gold, and you can’t even see the seam where the damn thing closes. How’d they get it on you?”

It took Luca a moment to realize that Finn was talking to him.

“I d-don’t know, sir.”

“ _Sir_ , is it?” said Finn, shooting Doran a look of amusement.

“Oh, he _sir_ s everybody,” said Doran. “Don’t take it personally.”

“Too late,” said Finn, giving Luca the sort of smile that made it impossible not to smile back. “I’ll be walking around with a swelled head for the rest of the day.”

As Finn stepped out from behind his anvil, Luca saw for the first time that he was shackled to it. A length of chain led to a heavy iron cuff around his ankle.

“Right, let’s have a look at that collar,” said Finn. “Sit on that crate for me. Pull your hair up, there’s a good lad. Sheets of it, haven’t you? Blimey, this collar really is solid gold! Must weigh like lead. And such a scrawny little neck you’ve got, too! I wonder your head hasn’t popped off and gone rolling ’round the hills like a billiard ball.”

A burst of laughter escaped before Luca could cover his mouth. Finn’s bright eyes twinkled at him from over the tangle of beard.

 _He meant to make me laugh,_ Luca thought. Finn was clearly the sort of person who despised seriousness. And of course Luca must look terribly serious to people unfamiliar with the blankness that was supposed to occupy a pleasure slave’s face when it wasn’t in use. He was comfortable enough with Connell and Doran now to let the mask slip, but wiping his expression around everyone else was a habit so deeply ingrained that he didn’t even realize he was doing it. Perhaps he ought to try letting more show.

But no. Why bother? Once he was shut away, there would be no one to see it.

As Finn examined Luca’s collar, Doran rattled around the tent. He was nearly as hopeless at keeping still as Asher.

“Got any new puzzles?” asked Doran.

“Loads,” said Finn without looking up. “No end of scrap from Angarrick. Look in the box there.”

Luca watched with interest as Doran picked out a puzzle made up of three pieces of metal twisted together. On closer observation, Luca could see that although the three pieces looked identical, each was a slightly different shape, with grooves that would, if manipulated properly, allow two of the pieces to click together and slide free of the third.

But Doran cheerfully, fruitlessly mishandled the puzzle as he swapped gossip with Finn. He seemed to have no strategy at all. It was maddening. Luca wanted so much to solve the puzzle for him that his fingers twitched.

During his first months with Master Commissioner, Luca hadn’t adjusted well. That’s what the doctor said. _Failure to acclimate_ , he’d told Master Commissioner as he examined the wounds from where Luca had banged his head against the wall and bitten his hands until they bled. _A sign of feeble-mindedness. Were the boy stronger mentally, he would have adapted to his new circumstances._

After the doctor left and Master Commissioner had punished Luca for being such a useless crybaby, the master’s clerk came in to clean him. (Luca used to beg the clerk to let him go home. He hadn’t begged in a long time.) The clerk gave Luca a toy—a real toy, the first and only one he’d ever had. It was a wooden cube made up of smaller cubes, each side painted a different color. You scrambled the cube so that the colors were all mixed up, and then worked the smaller cubes around until each side was the same color again.

Luca loved the cube. It obsessed him. He worked at it constantly, every second Master Commissioner wasn’t with him. He dreamed of colored squares revolving over him like stars.

But Luca was little then, and careless. He didn’t hide the cube well enough. It was found by a maid, who gave it to Master Commissioner, who made Luca watch as he burned it to ash in the fireplace. _You belong to me_ , said Master Commissioner as Luca sobbed and squirmed in his arms. _Every good thing in your life comes from me, do you understand?_

What Master Commissioner didn’t know—what Luca never told him—was that it was too late. By then Luca had the cube memorized. He could scramble and solve it over and over again in his mind. He even figured out how to double the dimensions, giving the cube twelve sides and more colors. Luca would use that same part of his brain when Robbie taught him how to read—and, later, when decrypting code for Mr. Kemp. Now, watching Doran with the puzzle, Luca felt that part of his brain come alive again.

Doran was so close. If he just moved that piece a little to the left—

“Ah, bugger this,” said Doran. “You must have a devious mind, Finn, to dream these things up. Here, Mouse, you want a go?”

“Oh, please!”

Doran gave him the puzzle. Luca pushed the slightly smaller piece of metal into the loop of its neighbor, locked them together _,_ and pulled them free from the central piece. Then he unlocked them. He held all three pieces up to show Doran, who did some colorful Midlander cursing.

“Finn, look at this! The lad’s gone and solved it!”

But Finn was already staring at the deconstructed puzzle in mute astonishment. Doran, meanwhile, was so excited that he was bouncing on his heels.

“I’ll wager no one’s ever solved one of your puzzles that fast before, eh?” he said, elbowing Finn.

“You’d win that wager,” said Finn quietly.

Finn looked so disconcerted that Luca had a moment of panic. He shouldn’t have made solving the puzzle seem so easy. No doubt Finn resented being shown up by a stupid barbarian whore. Lady, he must be furious with Luca. He’d never try to make Luca laugh again.

 _Making enemies already, hole? It’s like the Harlequin all over again._

“I didn’t really solve it,” said Luca quickly. “I—I cheated by watching Doran try first. I already knew where the pieces were supposed to go. That doesn’t count.”

“Well, try your luck on another while I hammer one of the standard collars down to size,” said Finn, pushing himself up. “You’ve got a neck like—what’s that poncy bird on Lord Ambrose’s standard?”

“A crane,” said Doran as he rifled through the crate for another puzzle. “There you go, Mouse. This one looks vicious.”

It was certainly more difficult than the last puzzle. Luca intended to make a show of confusion before giving up—but once he had the puzzle in his hands, it possessed him. Everything else fled from his mind. By the time Finn returned, he’d solved it.

“Well, aren’t you full of surprises,” said Finn, eyebrows flying up. “Not cheating, are you? Ah, that’s it—you’re one of those slick city operators. I bet you’ve got a lockpick hidden somewhere. Go on, turn out those sleeves. Empty? Must’ve been some other trick. Doran, how close were you watching him? You’ve got to keep an eye on a boy like this or he’ll empty your pockets before you can say _—_ ”

“Shut up,” said Doran abruptly.

Luca was hyperventilating. Through the acid haze of panic, he saw Doran crouch down. He felt hands close on his shoulders—not to pin him down, but to…hold him? The sensation was so unfamiliar that he almost forgot to be afraid.

“Listen to me, Mouse,” said Doran. “You aren’t in trouble, all right? He’s only joking. Finn, for fuck’s sake, tell him you’re joking.”

“Of course I am,” said Finn, alarmed. “Ah, fields of hell, I’ve stuck my foot in it, have I? I’m too good an actor, that’s my curse. Once I dreamed of treading the boards in Lyonesse, but no, I’m too convincing. If I played a bear, I’d send all the noble ladies screaming for their lives.”

The panic in Luca’s chest dissolved into a hiccup of laughter.

“Oh, pull the other one,” said Doran, but he was laughing, too.

Finn grabbed a puzzle from the shelf beside his anvil. He must’ve finished it not long ago; it was still warm when he pressed it into Luca’s hands.

“Here’s my latest masterpiece,” Finn said. “And if it takes you more than five minutes to figure it out, I’ll be _furious_.”

But he gave Luca a wink to let him know that he didn’t mean it.

Luca turned the puzzle over as Finn gathered his tools to unlock the golden collar. It must’ve been far trickier to figure out than a puzzle, because a small crowd of smiths gathered to watch him work. They called out suggestions; a few seemed to be placing bets.

The holiday mood disappeared with the arrival of a man with a narrow, smiling, untrustworthy face. Aside from the stiffening of Finn’s posture, he gave no sign that he noticed the man at all.

This was a mistake. The man was clearly an overseer of some sort, and resented being ignored.

“That collar’s a work of art,” he said, crossing his arms. “Are you sure you can open it without nicking the gold?”

This wasn’t fair. Master Balkas had ordered the collar melted down; it shouldn’t matter what shape it was in, as long as Finn could get it off Luca’s neck. But of course free people never played fair.

“You know me, Master Foreman,” said Finn, all forced cheer. “I’m nothing if not confident.”

“A little too confident for your own good, I’d say,” said the foreman with a nasty little smile. “How about this: if you can get that collar off without leaving a mark, I’ll let you work off the chain tomorrow. But if you can’t…” He let his gaze rest on Luca. “You’ll have to give the General’s bed-boy a big, wet kiss.”

Finn and Luca met each other’s eyes. Finn didn’t have the pleasure slave’s trick of wiping his face blank. Anger was written all over it—such calm, collected, well-contained anger that Luca could tell it had been simmering for a long time, and kept from boiling over by nothing but Finn’s own grim determination. Luca knew that look. He’d seen it on his father. Finn was just waiting for the right moment to explode.

But this wasn’t it. Finn gave Luca a smile so good-humored you wouldn’t think he’d been unhappy a day in his life.

“Just keep as still as you can and focus on that puzzle,” Finn told Luca. “Let’s see if you can solve it before I get your new collar on.”

If there was one thing Luca knew how to do, it was keep still. As Finn lined up his awl against the lip of the collar, Luca closed his eyes and summoned an image of the puzzle he held in his hands. This one was made up of L-shaped pieces twisted together in two large interlocking Ls. He’d had enough time to figure out how each of the pieces fit and which way they moved. Now it was just a question of identifying the right moves in the most efficient sequence to unlock the puzzle.

The other smiths went silent as Finn raised his hammer. There was a quiver in the air, like a breath indrawn and held.

Luca saw the sequence unfold like the steps of a dance.

 _Cling_.

The collar fell open.

Luca opened his eyes. Finn was holding up the two halves of the collar for the foreman’s inspection as the other smiths whooped and cheered. From his grin and the foreman’s sour expression, Luca knew that the gold was unblemished.

In five precise moves, Luca unlocked the puzzle.

There was a moment, between surfacing from his focus on the puzzle and Finn setting the new collar in place, when Luca felt nothing around his neck at all. Aside from a collection of moments, like this, when one collar was being swapped out for another, his neck hadn’t been bare since he was a child. Strange how the collar’s absence was so much more noticeable than its presence—a strange weightlessness just above his collarbone, as though skin and bone had disappeared into air.

Then the new collar closed around his neck, and Luca was earthbound again.

“Comfortable?” Finn asked, checking to make sure there were no places where the metal pinched.

Luca nodded. It was certainly much more comfortable than his old collar. And even if it hadn’t been, he would’ve adapted. He could adapt to anything now. Maybe—and this was a dangerous idea, one he should’ve squelched as soon as it came into his mind—but maybe there was a chance that he wasn’t quite as feebleminded as the doctor thought.

“Will you visit me next week?” asked Finn. “I’ll have a new puzzle for you then.”

“Really?”

“Really. You’ve inspired me. I plan to exceed myself.” He nodded to the puzzle Luca still had in his hands. “Keep that one, if you like.”

Luca realized that he had the puzzle clutched to his chest. He was smiling so wide that the corners of his mouth felt as though they’d been pulled up around his ears. For a brief instant, the feeling of weightlessness filled his whole body. As if he could fly.

Robert was helping Fergus clear bird’s nests out of the arrow loops when a runner came to fetch him to Tam Tregeryth’s office. Tam liked fetching people. He’d designated one of the Bustament Boys to do the job, and he ( _she,_ Robert reminded himself) had the look of someone being run off their feet.

When Robert entered the office, Tam was perched on the edge of his desk and scowling down a map like it owed him money. Seeing Robert, he gave him a luminous smile.

“Robert Black! Just the man I wanted to see. How’s the hand?”

Robert had just managed to forget about the hand. Brought back to mind, it gave a particularly punishing throb.

“All the better for your asking,” said Robert, trying not to wince.

Tam tossed the map down. Abruptly, he said, “You know where the redbacks nabbed me and my men?”

“Prowling around the Generals’ stronghold at Breakwater,” Robert replied. He’d been wondering whether Tam would bring this up. “I’ve heard it’s a fortress. Impenetrable. What were you doing there?”

“Kemp’s network contracted a privateer with a galleon. A real warship, like nothing you ever seen. The _Havoc,_ she’s called. Good name, eh? Anyway, she was supposed to make berth in Guye, but she hit a storm out of port and got spat out off the coast nearer Breakwater. The crew got word to Kemp in Lyonesse, and Kemp got word to us. Unfortunately, the Regiment intercepted us on our way to intercept the _Havoc_. Damned rude of them. Good thing the gods smile on Guye. A few of my Dogs escaped onto ship before the redbacks could nab ’em.”

“And they knew that you’d be sent to Absalom,” said Robert, comprehension dawning.

“Where else? I’ve been waiting to see sails on the horizon for weeks. And we just had word that your man Merton spotted them through that spyglass of his.”

“It’s the _Havoc?_ You’re sure?”

“Trust me, there’s but one ship like that the world over.” Tam’s expression turned rueful. “Alas, our scouts come in hot on Merton’s heels with news of a bloody great Regimental detachment marching double-quick down the King’s Road from Lyonesse.”

“From Lyonesse?” said Robert, experiencing a strange mixture of relief and desolation. “So that won’t be Balkas’s detachment, then.”

“Aye, the General must’ve stayed course to Redditch. Expected as much. Expected Lyonesse on our doorstep three weeks ago, truth be told. Those two redbacks what escaped must’ve had a hell of a time getting home.”

Robert took a moment to bless whatever ill wind had delayed Davies and Arkwright. Gods knew they’d needed every spare day it bought them.

“How far is the ship?” he asked.

“About two days off, in fair weather. And the Regiment the same.”

“So it’s a race to see who reaches us first: our friends by sea or our foes by land.”

Tam grinned. “You do have a pretty way of putting things.”

There was a knock at the door.

“Come!” Tam shouted.

The door cracked open and Asher peered in.

“Tyburn sent me,” he said, gazing around the room with his usual unabashed nosiness. “He wants Robert once he’s finished here. Something about booby-trapping the gate. Is this the highest part of keep? Can you see Ermin from that window?”

“Thank you, Asher,” said Robert, gently but firmly pushing him out. “Tell Tyburn I’ll be with him shortly.”

The moment the door was shut, Tam said, “That lad’s a sight for sore eyes. Who’s he belong to?”

The question sounded casual, but Robert knew better. He recognized too well the gleam of predatory interest in Tam’s beautiful eyes.

“Asher belongs to himself,” said Robert, in a tone pitched to severely discourage further inquiry.

But Tam was undeterred.

“Ah, come on, Black,” he said with a knowing grin. “A boy that pretty, and you’re telling me he’s not got a protector?”

“He’s got me.”

“And what is he to you?”

“We’re brothers.”

Tam burst out laughing.

“Ah, you’re a jester, Black! I’d sooner believe you’re kin to that barbarian of yours. At least you’n he are of a height.”

“Believe whatever suits you,” said Robert through his teeth. “Asher and I share blood. Whatever man is fool enough press their luck with him will have me to answer to.”

Tam must have finally heard the warning in Robert’s voice. His expression cooled.

“You lords of Lyonesse like giving your orders, don’t you?” he said quietly.

“I’m not lord of anywhere.”

“Maybe not while the False King rules,” said Tam, crossing his arms. “But where will you be after? Me, I know where I’ll be. I’m the True King’s War Chief. I’ll be sitting at His Majesty’s right hand. As for you—well, I don’t deny you’ve got prince’s blood, and it could well be you at His Majesty’s left. But speak to me like I’m some peasant not fit to polish your lordship’s boots and you’ll be nothing and nowhere.”

“If you seriously think,” said Robert, “that I give one scintilla of an iota of a damn about my standing at Highcourt once this war is over, you have misjudged me so badly that I fear for your sanity.” 

There was a long silence. Tam and Robert regarded each other from opposite ends of the room. Robert had the infuriating feeling that when Tam looked at him, he saw a lord of royal blood sneering down his noble nose rather than what Robert saw when he looked at himself: a whore’s bastard who’d spent so many years pretending otherwise that he was too tired now to be anything else.

“Get the men ready,” said Tam. “Whoever reaches us first, friend or foe, we’ll have war before week’s end.”

Robert didn’t slam the door behind him, but it was a near thing.

Ged was waiting for him on the landing. When he saw Robert’s expression, he arched a brow.

“Making friends, were we?” Ged said.

“Oh, you know me and Tam. Chummy as two boys at school.” Robert took off down the stairs, wanting to put as much distance between himself and Tam as possible. “Right. I’ve got good news and bad news.”

“Never one without the other ’round here, is it?” Ged sighed, falling into step beside him.

As they made their way through the keep, Robert relayed what Tam had told him about the imminent approach of both the _Havoc_ and the Regimental detachment from Lyonesse.

“You might’ve mentioned that the good news and the bad news cancel each other out,” said Ged once Robert was finished.

“I’d hoped the twist might punch up the plot,” said Robert.

“The plot,” said Ged, “does not need punching up.”

“Well, I can’t argue with you there. To think I ever wished for an exciting life.” Robert sighed. Then, wistfully, “I don’t suppose you know any barbarian charms to fill a ship’s sails with wind?”

“Only one,” Ged returned, “but I’d have to behead somebody.”

Robert’s own head snapped around so fast that he nearly fell over. Ged must be joking. ( _Mustn’t he?_ ) Everyone knew that barbarians practiced all sorts of gruesome rituals if left to their own devices, including human sacrifice, but the Regiment had put a stop to that sort of thing. ( _Hadn’t they?_ ) One did hear about bloody deeds done in the dead of night—barbarians decapitating their elders and leaving infants to die on hillsides and so on—but Robert didn’t like to credit that sort of talk. Luca wouldn’t hurt a fly, and Ged…well, he may have killed more men than he could count, but the same was true for Robert. Anyway, Robert couldn’t imagine Ged participating in that sort of savagery. He was too civilized. ( _Or was he…?_ )

The battle being pitched in Robert’s mind must have spilled over onto his face. Ged stopped short.

“Are you trying to decide if I’m joking?” he demanded.

“What? No. You are, of course, joking, and I knew that immediately.” Robert paused. “Because human sacrifice is outlawed in Lyonesse.”

“And it’s outlawed in Kel, thanks to you wolves, along with all the rest of our sacred rites!”

Robert had never heard Ged raise his voice before. It rang off the walls like a struck cymbal. They’d stopped halfway down a staircase; concerned faces peered up at them from the foot of the stairs. Thank gods they’d been speaking in Keld. Robert didn’t want to think what could’ve happened if Tam Tregeryth got word that Robert Black’s barbarian was shouting mutiny in the hallways.

Ged seemed to be having the same thought. He ran a shaky hand over his face.

“Let’s not get into this,” he muttered. “I was joking, anyway.”

“I know,” said Robert, even though he hadn’t. He went on, with a lightness that sounded forced even to him, “I only hesitated because I was making a list of candidates to offer up for beheading.”

Thankfully, Ged recognized this for the olive branch it was. His grin was only slightly strained.

“I don’t envy the poor bastard that took top spot.”

“It was a ninety-way tie,” said Robert, “between every lord on Ademar’s Council.”

At that, Ged laughed—a real laugh. It felt like a stone had lifted from Robert’s chest.

“Speaking of people who hate me,” said Robert, starting back down the stairs, “Asher’s going to need a shadow.”

Ged followed him. Robert could tell he was running through a mental catalogue of people who had no love for Robert and might be a threat to Asher.

“Not Tam Tregeryth?” Ged said, eyes widening.

Robert nodded. Ged cursed.

“Ah, I should’ve known. My mother told me never to trust a good-looking wolf.”

“Just the good-looking ones?”

“Well, all wolves, but the good-looking ones smile before they stick the knife in. Don’t worry, I won’t let Tregeryth near the boy. You have my word. And I won’t let the boy know he’s being guarded, either,” he added. “Lady knows he’d probably sneak off just to prove a point.”

Robert felt a rush of gratitude, shaded liberally with guilt. If Asher was like a little brother, Ged was something closer to a twin. He and Robert were so much of the same mind that Robert could forget that their people were at war. But Ged didn’t have that luxury.

Robert began to thank him, intending to make a better apology—but just then he caught sight of a Bustament Boy disappearing down the far corridor.

“Oh, fields of hell,” he groaned. “I meant to tell you—we need to keep an eye on the Bustaments's crew as well.”

Ged gave him a satirical look. “I was wondering when you were going to figure out about them being girls.”

This time it was Robert’s voice that rang off the walls.

“ _How did you know?_ ”

“How did you not?” Ged retorted. “Lady, you wolves have got to start spending more time around women.”

Robert laughed. "I'll take it under advisement."

By the time Luca, Doran, and Connell had cleaned Master Balkas’s quarters to his standards and settled Toby in the rooms he was to share with Hodge, it was well past dark. Luca had watched the light fade with a sense of encroaching doom.

But instead of taking Luca to whatever hole Master Balkas had decided to drop him into, Doran and Connell let him trail after them as they trudged, yawning, to their own lodgings.

Though there were slave barracks at Redditch—Doran had pointed them out on the way to the forge—Master Balkas deemed the distance inconvenient and had the quartermaster arrange for Connell and Doran to stay between his rooms and Toby’s. A funny little structure had been erected for them with three wooden walls and a canvas roof. The canvas side opened to reveal a cozy room with wood laid down for the floor, a potbellied woodstove, and—far more alarmingly—Tybalt, looking furious.

“This,” he said, before any of them could speak, “is the greatest insult I have ever suffered in the General’s service.”

A sheet had been tacked up to divide the room; Tybalt stabbed a finger at the camp bed and luggage on the lefthand side. On the right, Connell had tacked up his pictures and leaned their bedrolls against the wall.

Three bedrolls. And there, next to Luca’s, was his pack.

Tybalt was ranting about the unconscionable nerve of the quartermaster in consigning him to reside with slaves. Luca barely heard. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from his belongings set so naturally alongside Connell and Doran’s. As if this was where he belonged.

“None of you are to cross over to my side of the room,” Tybalt was saying. “Not for any reason, do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” said Doran. “I take it you’ll be cleaning that side yourself, then, sir?”

“Well—no. You shall have to cross over in order to clean, I suppose.”

“And your bed, sir?”

“And to make my bed, of course.”

“And your chamberpot. Will you be emptying it yourself now, sir?”

“Obviously,” said Tybalt stiffly, “you must also continue to empty my chamberpot.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But aside from that, I am not to be disturbed.”

“Yes, sir. Wouldn’t dream of it, sir.”

Tybalt turned on his heel, marched the three feet to his side of the room, and made a show of yanking the sheet across. It was so sheer that they could see him silhouetted on the other side. The silhouette kicked its luggage in frustration and then hopped back, clutching at its injured foot.

Doran turned to Luca and Connell and gave them a speaking look.

“Today,” he said, “has been five miles deep and six across. But borrowing a little of Mouse’s optimism—” He pulled a weathered pack of playing cards from his tunic— “I’ll admit to a silver lining on this particular cloud.”

Connell gasped.

“Where did you get those?” Then, dropping his voice, “Please tell me you didn’t nick them.”

“I’ll have you know they were a gift from an admirer.”

“You don’t have any admirers.”

“That’s not true. I admire myself enormously.”

Connell made a noise of exasperation. Still, he grabbed the cards and began to shuffle through them with obvious pleasure. Doran shot Luca a wink.

It struck Luca then that Doran had been absent when Finn was swapping out the collars. Luca hadn’t questioned it at the time; he’d been too absorbed in the puzzle. But now unease prickled at the back of his neck. Where _had_ Doran gotten the cards?

Doran clearly wasn’t going to answer that question tonight. He and Connell settled down to play a game they called Snap, which involved slapping down cards and trading increasingly creative insults. Tybalt radiated displeasure from his side of the sheet, but since objecting would require him to acknowledge having slaves for roommates, he maintained a thwarted, fuming silence.

Luca watched Doran and Connell play, turning the puzzle idly in his hands. There was a lovely fizzing warmth in his chest, warmer even than the cheerful little stove. He tried to decipher the feeling as he fitted the puzzle pieces back together. It wasn’t anything like as vivid and acute as what he felt when Robert kissed him; nor was it the soaring elation he felt when he danced.

 _Contentment,_ he thought as the last piece slotted into place—and yes, that fit perfectly.


End file.
